Perfect Pitch
by printandpolish
Summary: Alan has commented that a daughter might have been helpful. This is a what if fic. Author's note and explanation in Chapter 1. COMPLETE 16 May 2007.
1. Author's note

**Author's note for Perfect Pitch: **There have been a few times in the series, when there have been references to how having a daughter (or sister) would have been helpful. If you've seen my Outsiders stories, you know I like playing with sister fics. I did not want to create a Mary Sue but I did think it would be interesting to explore how the family dynamics might have changed if there had been a little girl with Alan and Margaret's two little boys. My intent is to begin where Charlie first exhibited his gift, then skip ahead to high school, taking the family through the kids' teenage and young adult years, through Margaret's illness and death, and what might have happened afterward.

I put her between Don and Charlie, since, with five years between them, that made the most sense to me.

What I have gleaned from the canon is that Don is the way he is – protective, independent, strong -- because he was alone a lot of the time, with the focus on Charlie and his education. Would that make him close to a sister near his age? Would he have been responsible for her? How protective would he be of her, she of Charlie? How would it have affected her to have Don, Charlie, and Margaret all leave home at the same time? Would they really be a little 'softer' if there had been a daughter? Don was the athlete, Charlie the genius – what would the middle child be?

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Lydia Eppes.


	2. Prologue

_I don't own Numb3rs or anyone you've ever heard of. Original characters are mine. _

* * *

**Prologue: November 1978**

Alan Eppes opened his front door, mildly surprised it had not been opened for him. Usually, when he arrived home, there was a tumble of children to greet him. Don, at eight, claimed to be too old to be racing to the door when Daddy came home, but Lydia always took Charlie's hand and said, "Then we'll go without you." That, of course, made Don try to sprint ahead of her.

Tonight, it was just his daughter, standing there waiting for him, looking strangely serious for a six-year-old. The house was very quiet.

"Hi sweetheart," Alan said. "Where is everyone?"

The little girl pointed. "Charlie is doing Donny's homework."

Alan glanced over at the dining room table, where his wife, Margaret, was sitting with the boys. He handed Lydia his briefcase and she set it solemnly on the floor, then Alan held out his hand and they walked to the dining area.

Margaret had a peculiar look on her face, not quite fear, not quite pride, some sort of mix, along with some sort of shock. A calculator sat in front of her. Charlie was sitting across from her. Don was slumped over his math workbook, as if in disbelief.

Alan sat down and pulled Lydia into his lap. She snuggled against him, playing with his tie.

"Hi," Margaret said. "Hey, Charlie, want to show Daddy?" She tapped numbers into the calculator and said, "Okay, sweets, what's 3,487 times 8,092?"

"Maggie, what --"

"Twenty-eight million and two hunnerd and sixteen thou'and and eight hunnerd and four, Mommy," Charlie said instantly. He sounded bored. "I'm going to be four."

"Yes, you are," Margaret said, and tilted the calculator to show Alan. _28,216,804._

Alan stared at her. "What … how did that happen?" he asked, surprised his voice was so weak.

"He's eight for eight," Don said, trying not to sound impressed. "The numbers are bigger than he is."

Margaret looked at Alan. "He just climbed up next to Donny and started doing his problems. Donny read them to him, kind of as a joke, and he kept getting them right, so I took the calculator …" her voice trailed off.

"They're all right?"

Margaret nodded. "He can't be guessing. I mean, who even taught him what a million is?"

"A billion is bigger than that," Charlie said conversationally.

Alan held out his hand for the calculator. "Random numbers?"

Margaret nodded. "Everything's right up to four digits."

"What's nine times nine?" Don asked suddenly.

"Eighty-one – Mommy, can I go play now?"

With a quick glance toward his mother, Don surreptitiously wrote down the answer.

"In a minute, Charlie."

"What's 1,653 minus 879?" Alan asked, tapping on the calculator.

"Seven hunnerd and seven'y-four," Charlie said. "I like the other ones better, the one that make them grow. That's a million and four hunnerd and fifty two thous'nd and then nine hundred and eighty-seven. A nine, then eight, then seven." He giggled. "They're backward."

Alan leaned toward him. "Charlie? How do you know a million? Who taught you that?"

Charlie shrugged. "It's just in my head. Like my name."

Lydia, uninterested, wriggled away from Alan and wandered over to the piano. Margaret pressed one hand to her mouth, having no idea what to make of her youngest's answer.

"I kept thinking I should call someone – like the pediatrician?" Margaret said. "I don't know. It's a little …" she glanced at Charlie. "S-p-o-o-k-y."

Lydia started playing scales.

"Why is it spooky?" Don asked, ignoring the pointed look his mother gave him. "It's kinda cool." He looked down at his workbook. "Chuck, what's seven times nine?"

"Not Chuck," Charlie said. "Sixty-three."

Don wrote it down. "What about …"

"Donny," Margaret said patiently, "you have to do your own homework."

"Maybe the pediatrician is a good place to start," Alan mused. "Is there a test? Like, a gifted test? Maybe … Lyddie. Lydia. Honey, do you have to do that now?"

"Mrs. Petrie said we have to practice," Lydia said. "Me, and Donny, too."

Alan poked Don. "She's right. Go on. Let Mom and me talk. You can finish your homework after dinner."

Don sighed, and then obediently joined his sister on the bench. "Thanks a lot," he mumbled. "I hate scales. I don't know why Mom makes me take these dumb lessons."

She smiled sweetly at him and put her hands on top of his. "It's okay," she whispered. "I'll help you." She guided his fingers and he grinned at her.

"Mrs. Petrie says there's 88 keys on the keyboard," Lydia told him. "I wonder if Charlie knows that?"

* * *

With Don and Lydia at the elementary school and Charlie stacking Lincoln Logs at her feet, Margaret spent the better part of the next morning on the telephone. She called Alan at lunch to report there was something called the California Mentally Gifted Minor Program and that she had set up a meeting for the following week.

That was the beginning of a whirlwind of appointments and tests and tutors, and late nights of long conversations between Alan and Margaret, over papers spread all over the dining room table. Charlie went from specialist to specialist, protesting all the way that he was not sick, he just wanted to play, and did they know there were 2,517 ways he could stack his Lincoln Logs?

With a lack of readily available babysitters, and with the guilt Margaret and Alan felt about the sudden rush of attention to Charlie, Don and Lydia tagged along. Margaret packed them a bag of snacks and toys and when she and Alan disappeared with Charlie into paneled offices, she kissed them and told them not to wander off.

"Donny, you take care of your little sister, okay? Lyddie, be a good girl. We're right in there if you need us. You knock on the door if there's an emergency."

So Don taught Lydia to play fish and crazy eights, and sometimes, in defiance of their parents' instructions, they'd sneak down the hall and look for a candy machine. In nicer weather, they'd wander outside and toss Don's ever-present baseball back and forth. Charlie got their parents all to himself. Don and Lydia got each other. They were all jealous.

In this way, unintentionally, but irrevocably, the pattern was set. By the time he was nine, Charlie could have graphed it.


	3. Chapter One

_Standard disclaimer continues. _

**Chapter One**

**(Fall, 1986)**

Margaret flipped the pancakes over and took another sip of her coffee. Above her head, she could hear her children rattling around, getting ready for the first day of school. It didn't seem so long ago that she'd sent Don off to kindergarten, and now he was sixteen, beginning his junior year.

And this year, both Lydia and Charlie were joining him at the high school. Margaret sighed. She hoped she and Alan were doing the right thing.

In the last two years, Charlie had been almost exclusively tutored, already academically ahead of his elementary and junior high school teachers. Alan and Margaret, after consulting with his tutors and the superintendent of schools, decided to start him at Pasadena High School. He'd still receive advanced instruction in mathematics and science, but he could take regular English and social science classes. He was often in his own world, scribbling in notebooks and on bits of scrap paper, and any effort at explanation made everyone's eyes glaze over. Margaret sometimes had the uneasy feeling that Charlie had missed out on his childhood, and she hoped, even though he'd be younger than his classmates, that he might have some semblance of a regular school experience. She wanted him to have a chance to be a kid.

Upstairs, Lydia was standing in front of her mirror with a comb and a can of hairspray, making sure every strand was in place. Her brothers were leaning in her doorway, watching the transformation. They were used to seeing her hair in a messy ponytail as she played the piano or tried to beat them at pick-up basketball.

She studied herself and said, "What do you think?"

"There is absolutely no way," Don said. He looked at Charlie. "What are the chances?"

Charlie snorted. "Less than two percent. I don't even need a pencil."

Lydia smoothed her short skirt over her leggings and scowled at them. "Look at the two of you," she sneered. "What do you know about fashion?"

Don and Charlie were dressed almost identically – blue jeans and t-shirts; Don with a red plaid flannel over his and Charlie with a hoodie sweatshirt tied around his waist. Don was dressed for comfort. Charlie was emulating his big brother, as usual, and trying to look inconspicuous. It was bad enough he was eleven years old and they were sending him to high school; he wanted to be as invisible as possible.

"I don't have to know about fashion," Don answered. "I just have to know Dad, and there's no way he's going to let you go to school looking like …"

"… like a two-bit whore," Charlie supplied.

Lydia's mouth fell open.

"Oh, my God, Charlie," Don said weakly. "Do you even know what that means?"

"Yes," he said defensively. "And I didn't mean you, Lyddie. I meant like Madonna. That's what Dad said. Not the religious one, the other one."

Lydia was still unable to close her mouth.

"Kids!" Alan called up the stairs. "I'm on my way out, which means you have thirty-five minutes! Come on! You don't want to be late your first day, do you?"

Lydia gave her head one last puff of spray.

"You really should change," Don said kindly. "And wash your face. Mom's going to have a fit."

Lydia stuck out her tongue and flounced past them, clattering down the stairs on her heels.

Don looked at Charlie. "How long?"

Charlie shrugged. "I dunno, three, four sec ---"

"Lydia Irene!" Margaret shrieked from the kitchen. "You march yourself back upstairs and wash your face and put on some clothes. Some real clothes. This instant!"

Don held up a palm. Charlie high-fived him. Then they got the hell out of their sister's way as she stormed back into her room.

A half hour later, as they were leaving to catch the bus, Margaret pulled her oldest aside. "Keep an eye out for your brother, would you, Donny?" she asked quietly. "Lydia will be fine, she's got her friends, and she's the right age, but Charlie … well, he's still just a little boy."

"Sure, Mom," Don said. He felt a little guilty. His last two years had been terrific – he was alone at the high school, with no one to worry about except himself. He'd been able to do his own thing without worrying about Charlie trying to tag along, making inane statistical comments or – somehow even more disturbing – without Lydia commenting on how cute his friends were. "Chuck, buddy, come on, let's go."

"Don't call me Chuck," Charlie said automatically. "I hate that." He let Margaret kiss him goodbye and followed his siblings out the door.

When the bus came, Don sat at the back with the other older boys, complaining that they couldn't wait until one of them got a car and they could leave public school transportation behind. Lydia took a seat in the middle with her friends, and Charlie sat in the first seat behind the driver, alone until the end of the route. He loved school. He loved learning. He loved his numbers. But he hated the awkward, uncomfortable, fish-out-of-water feeling that dogged him when he was dumped in the middle of something socially new.

At school, Charlie walked slowly, his hands jammed in his pockets so he wouldn't automatically reach for his brother or sister. _Too old for that,_ he said to himself fiercely. _You'll embarrass them. You'll embarrass yourself. _

He hesitated at the door. Don and Lydia exchanged a glance over Charlie's head, then Lydia said gently, "Hey. Come on. Let's see where you're supposed to go. I'm not even sure where I'm supposed to go."

"Orientation's in the auditorium," Don said, pointing at a sign. "Here, I'll show you guys."

* * *

Lydia's skirt was longer and her shoes were shorter, but she had reapplied her make-up in the girls' room between first and second periods. Don rolled his eyes at her when he passed her in the hall. She smiled sweetly and elbowed her friend Caroline when she giggled.

"Damn, she's all grown up," Don's friend Jason commented.

"She's off limits," Don answered shortly. "And I wish her friends would get that I'm not asking out a freshman girl. Ever."

Jason held up his hands in surrender, then pointed to a skirmish brewing in the doorway of the science room. "Is he off limits too? Someone ought to tell Bruitt."

Don followed Jason's finger and sighed heavily. Charlie was in the middle of a group of senior boys, two of whom were poking at him. He was trying to duck away but they had him effectively surrounded.

"Damn," Don mumbled, and jogged over to the group. He reached into the middle of the circle, grabbed Charlie's upper arm and, in one fluid motion, pulled him away from his tormentors and shoved him behind his back.

Phil Bruitt grinned at him. "Aw, man, don't do that!" he said. "He was explaining football to us. Something about running patterns and strategy. What the hell he thinks he doing, I don't know – he looks like he got lost on his way to kindergarten. You know him?"

"He's my brother," Don said curtly.

"No way!" Phil exclaimed. "That's the little genius? Looks like a little monkey to me." He guffawed loudly.

Don glanced over his shoulder. Charlie was fighting back tears. "He's eleven, Bruitt, and he's smarter than the rest of us will ever be," Don said. "Knock it off. You outweigh him by fifty pounds."

"You didn't used to be such a pussy, Eppes," Phil said. "And damn, it's only the first day."

He took a step forward. Don met him and they stood chest to chest. Charlie sniffled quietly and Don clenched his fists. "I said. Leave. Him. Alone."

"Make me."

* * *

Margaret pulled into the high school parking lot and tapped on the horn impatiently. Don looked up from his seat on the grass and stood, stretching, then trotted over to the car.

"I'm not happy," Margaret said as he clicked his seat belt together. She reached over to touch the bruise on his face and Don jerked away from her. "I don't have time for this, especially not today."

"I'm sorry," Don mumbled. But he wasn't, not really. He knew he probably shouldn't have thrown the first punch, but he couldn't stand Phil standing there, looking so smug, like he owned the damn school. The whole fight had lasted only two blows; Phil's shot had sent Don tripping backward over Charlie, and then the teachers were there. Charlie was crying by then, not because he was hurt, but because of the blood on Don's lip.

"The only reason you weren't suspended is because that boy owned up to egging you on," Margaret said. "Three days of detention is bad enough. I don't know how I'm going to get you home tomorrow – or Thursday, in fact, since Charlie's got his tutor and Lyddie will be at piano."

"I'll find a ride," Don said.

"You can ask your father," Margaret said curtly. "Explain to him how you got yourself into this mess."

Don took a deep breath. "Did they tell you he was poking at Charlie?"

Margaret didn't reply. She glanced to her left and pulled onto the street.

"Mom. Don't tell me to look out for him and then get mad at me when I do."

* * *

"So."

Don looked up as Lydia stuck her head in his doorway. "So," he answered.

"First day of high school was interesting." She came into the room and pulled out the chair to his desk, sitting down backward. She was wearing faded pink pajamas and her hair was in two neat braids. She looked five years younger than she had that morning. "Charlie's bawling, you're bleeding, and I'm sitting next to Mark Patrick in Earth Science, who is really cute, but has really bad B.O."

Don smiled in spite of himself. Lydia always made him feel better, even when she wasn't trying, even when he wasn't quite aware he was feeling down.

"Was Daddy really pissed?"

"Not as much as I thought he'd be," Don replied. "He told me I could find my own ride home and if I couldn't, he'd pick me up on his way home. At six. And that as long as I was serving detention, I wasn't going anywhere else, either."

"Phil Bruitt's a jerk, Donny," Lydia said. "You did the right thing."

Don shrugged. "Didn't seem like it was right or wrong. It just was … there wasn't anything else to do."

His sister nodded thoughtfully.

"But Charlie has to keep his mouth shut," Don went on. "He overheard them talking about football practice and I think he thought he was trying to help. He needs to just mind his own business. And speaking of, where is Charlie?"

"Making numbers," Lydia said. "I think he's trying to figure out the exact angle you can throw a punch and knock someone out."

Don burst out laughing. Lydia snickered at him. Two doors down, Charlie looked up at the noise. He thought briefly about going into Don's room to ask what the joke was, and then, the numbers pulled him back in and he bent over his notebook, almost instantly forgetting there had been laughter at all.


	4. Chapter Two

_A warning – there is no Don in this chapter. I wanted us to see what made Lydia tick. _

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**(Early 1987)**

_You have ugly toes_

_A big crooked nose_

_This song really blows. _

Lydia smirked to herself and played the five notes again. She was sitting alone in the band room at school, having talked the director into letting her use the space during her study hall. Though she wasn't part of the marching band, she played the music for the chorus and was a member of the stage band.

She loved her fourth period. It was the only time she got to be alone with her music. At home, the piano was in the middle of the first floor and no matter how considerate she tried to be, it was hard to play quietly. Her parents had bought her a portable keyboard for the holidays, and that had headphones, but it didn't sound the same and the keys were too small. The band room was soundproofed, and she could play as loudly as she liked. Sometimes she practiced the choral music. Sometimes she tried to write music of her own. And sometimes, like now, she closed her eyes and pretended she was on a stage, with people screaming for more.

"Um. Lydia?"

Lydia opened her eyes. Charlie was hovering in the doorway.

"What?" she said, a little snappishly.

"Can you … do you … can I borrow lunch money?"

"Didn't Mom give you money?" Lydia asked. "And where are you supposed to be? Not here."

"Going to the bathroom. They … I lost my money," Charlie said lamely.

Lydia's face softened and she reached under the piano bench for her backpack. _Baloney you lost it_, she thought, but she didn't have the heart to ask for details.

In the six months he'd been in high school, Charlie had tried his best to fit in. Most of the bullies left him alone, afraid of Don, but Charlie wanted to make friends and was obsessed with a need to share his math with everyone. It was off-putting to the other students – he was several years younger than they and he made no sense to them.

All of Charlie's attempts led the same two places: at best, they made fun of him behind his back and at worst, they targeted him, not caring that his big brother was the star of the school baseball team.

This lasted until there was a Calculus problem they couldn't figure out. Then they acted like his best friend, and he fell for it every time. He helped them over and over again and was crushed when they went back to ridicule.

"Why doesn't he just quit trying?" Lydia had grumbled ungraciously to Don. "He never learns. It's like he's socially retarded or something."

"Don't be such a bitch, Lyddie," Don admonished her, and she didn't talk to him for nearly a whole day after that.

Now, she handed Charlie two crumpled dollars, wishing he were a normal little kid, still at the elementary school. He was already doing sophomore level work, even in his English and social science classes, and there was talk that he might actually graduate with Don. Phil Bruitt went so far as to ask Don, in front of a hallway full of people, how it felt to be Charlie's idiot older brother. Even Lydia's friend Ellen, who had practically known Charlie since birth, sometimes whispered, "God, he's such a geek."

"Thanks," Charlie said, shoving the bills in his pocket. "Mom'll give it back."

"No sweat. Mom gave it to me in the first place." She paused, then asked, "Where are you supposed to be? When you're done with not going to the bathroom, I mean."

"Well, sort of the study hall. Mr. Hirsch went home sick."

Mr. Hirsch was Charlie's tutor, a professor of applied mathematics at CalSci. He came to the high school four days a week, teaching Charlie concepts beyond the expertise of the regular teachers. When he was absent, Charlie didn't have math or science – no one else could keep up with him. If there was advance warning, sometimes Charlie didn't even come to school, but if it was last minute, he ended up stuck in a study hall, scribbling in his ever-present notebook.

Lydia wondered what would happen if she or Don decided to stay home because there was a substitute. She was tired of the way the adults – including her parents – fawned over Charlie. It had been that way for almost as long as she could remember, and it was getting easier to ignore Charlie in the halls and the cafeteria.

But he was her brother. Her little brother. And he wasn't an awful kid, just weird, like he had a grown up brain in a boy's body. And he couldn't help that. Maybe she was a bitch.

"You can stay here, until the bell rings," she said, feeling a little guilty at the way Charlie's face lit up. "But you have to be quiet."

"Sure, yeah, okay." Charlie settled into the nearest chair and opened his notebook. "I won't say a word."

_I doubt that, _she thought, and sure enough, less than five minutes later, her brother ventured, "You know, music is all numbers. It's repeating patterns and …"

Lydia wagged a finger at him. "Stop. Do not compare Carole King to algebra."

Don and Charlie had abandoned piano long ago. Don could still read music and pick out a tune, but only Lydia still took lessons, though she'd left Mrs. Petrie's classical style for a more modern teacher in fifth grade. She already knew she wanted to attend Berklee College of Music in Boston. Margaret encouraged her to play however she liked, to write her own music and dream her dreams. She always looked a little wistful when she said it and no matter how her children begged, she seldom sat down at the piano herself.

But Lydia loved it. Her parents never had to nag her to practice. She pounded out Areosmith and Pat Benatar tunes until Alan, in an effort to save his ears, gave her his old '60s albums. She fell in love with the passionate lyrics and the strong melodies. Carole King became Lydia's idol and she could play the entire "Tapestry" album flawlessly. She could spend hours tinkering with one of the old songs, trying to arrange it for the piano and perk it up without losing its original integrity. Her friends Caroline and Ellen had their rooms decorated with posters of Kirk Cameron and Michael J. Fox, but Lydia had one wall plastered with cutouts of Carole, Elton John, and Billy Joel, Stevie Wonder, and any other keyboardist she could find.

"I wonder how likely it is you can be a rock star on a piano," Charlie mused. "I think the chances –"

"I have three words for you," Lydia interrupted, before he could throw a statistic at her. "Jerry. Lee. Lewis."

She crashed her hands down on the first few bars of "Great Balls of Fire" to illustrate her point.

"Or Steven Tyler."

The first chords of "Dream On."

"And Freddie Mercury."

The end of "Bohemian Rhapsody."

"And, of course, the fabulous Elton John."

Her fingers trilled the beginning of "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road."

"How do you do that?" Charlie whispered. His eyes were huge.

"You've seen me play a million times," Lydia said.

"But not like that. There's no sheet music. It's like … your fingers just know where to go. Wow."

He watched her play for a few minutes, moving smoothly from one song to the next, singing under her breath.

"Your voice is pretty, Lyddie," he said. "You have perfect pitch."

She blushed and stumbled over a chord. "Thank you." She smiled at him, pleased. It wasn't often she could impress either of her brothers.

"Numbers are beautiful too," Charlie said softly. "They're like music. They're old – not like, ugly, but like … antiques. They flow, they … well, they kind of talk. They tell stories."

"Is that what you're trying to do?" Lydia said. She'd never asked him before. "Trying to tell a story?"

"Look." Charlie tilted his notebook and showed her a page. _lim f(x) a _"It's a random matrix," he said. "You can make equations to explain things and figure out how likely it is that something will happen. I'm not trying to tell a story. I'm trying to find one that's already there."

"Sometimes, it's like my fingers are connected directly to my brain," Lydia said. "Sometimes it's just there." She blushed again as Charlie stared at her intensely. "I know, it sounds stupid."

"No it doesn't." Charlie bent over his notebook, scribbling furiously, already distracted. "We're not so different, Lyddie."


	5. Chapter Three

_I'm taking some poetic license here, in that I don't know when colleges offer scholarships to the students and whether they go through the parents or the schools' athletic departments. So … I wrote it the way I wanted it to happen. I also have no idea where Don went to college, so I made that up too. _

_Chapter four is right behind this – it turned out to be too long for a single chapter. _

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**(Spring, 1988)**

Don knocked once on the doorjamb of Coach Crowley's office and cleared his throat. "You wanted me?"

Coach waved him in. "Indeed. Have a seat, Eppes."

Don obeyed, rolling his neck to stretch out his muscles. Practice had been grueling. It had been raining for three days and Don was wet, tired, cranky and covered in mud. A water main had broken in front of the school and the road crews were still out, so he was going to have to wait until he got home to shower.

"You decide about college?" Coach asked.

"Not quite." Don had applied to seven schools and been accepted at four, and was waiting to see what the financial aid packages were before deciding.

"Bob Lambert, the athletic director at CalState in San Bernardino, wanted me to send him some tapes. They were lookin' at you and Bruitt, I think." Coach reached behind him into a small fridge and pulled out two Gatorades, handing one to Don. "They called this afternoon. They want to give you the full boat."

Don twisted off the cap. "Yeah, they --" he broke off as his coach's words registered. "They … they what?"

"Full boat. Tuition, room and board. There might be a book allowance." Coach grinned at him. "'Course, you'll have to agree to play baseball for them."

Don felt a grin of his own lighting his face. "I can do that," he said.

"And damn well." Coach leaned over his desk. "Look, go talk to your parents, see what you want to do – but it's a great opportunity. You refine your game there, well, scouts come to the college games all the time."

"So what do I do?" Don asked.

"I wanted to tell you, but Lambert said there'll be an official contract coming in the mail. Watch for it."

"I – I will," Don stammered. This was almost too good to be true. Charlie was going to graduate with him in June, and though he was pretty much assured of a full boat of his own, Don knew his parents were worried about sending them both to college at once, with Lydia only two years behind.

Coach smiled at him. "It's a solid offer. Go tell people. And get out of here, you're dripping mud on my floor."

* * *

Don enjoyed a rare drive home alone, the radio cranked, singing along at the top of his lungs. When he'd gotten his license, Alan had helped him buy a car. He'd thought that it would mean more freedom, but his father's assistance came with a price: Don shuttled his brother and sister to school and appointments. Margaret, a lawyer by trade, had been taking per diem cases all along, but once she wasn't needed solely for transportation, she went to work part-time in an office downtown. It was near Alan's planning office at City Hall and sometimes they didn't get back until six o'clock. Usually, either Alan or Margaret prepped something for dinner and Don, Lydia or Charlie stuck it in the oven.

He was whistling when he opened the back door, his mood immeasurably improved. He dropped his bag by the door and toed off his shoes. He could smell lasagna and his mouth watered. "Mom?" he called.

Charlie stuck his head through the swinging door. "Not home yet," he said. "You're filthy."

"Yeah, I'm going to strip in the laundry room," Don said, already pulling off his shirt. "Can I make it up the stairs, or is Lydia home?"

"I'll get your robe," Charlie offered.

By the time Don got out of the shower, his parents had returned and Margaret was tossing a salad. Don leaned over her and picked out a carrot, ducking under her playful swat. "How was work?" he asked.

"Not bad. School?"

"I'll tell you at dinner," Don teased. He waited until they were all seated around the table before announcing, "I decided where I'm going to school. Well, I guess I should say it was kind of decided for me."

They all looked at him expectantly, but Don turned to Alan. "I got a full baseball scholarship to CalState."

"Donny!" Margaret rushed to his side, hugging him fiercely. "That's wonderful!"

"Coach told me today. It's pretty cool." Don tried to sound nonchalant but he was beaming. When Alan said huskily, "We're very proud of you, son," he could feel his face flush.

Lydia cleared her throat. "Which campus?" she asked. "L.A.?" She was holding her breath.

Don turned to her, steadily holding her eyes. "San Bernadino."

"Oh," she said in a small voice. She cleared her throat. "Well, that's only an hour away, right? I'll come watch you play."

No one but Don noticed she avoided his eyes for the rest of the meal.

**

* * *

**

Three hours later, she tapped on his door once and, before Don could answer, pushed it open and crawled up onto the bed next to him.

"What's the matter?" Don asked, pulling his headphones off.

She pointed. "They're still down there. Discussing."

Don switched off his Walkman and listened. Alan and Margaret had been sitting at the table since dinner. They weren't yelling, but random words were floating up the stairs. The conversation seemed entirely civil, though very intense.

"What are they talking about?" Don asked. He hated the knot in his stomach. He thought he should be old enough that it didn't bother him, but he'd always hated it when his parents didn't seem to be on the same page. Most of the time, even with the chaos of managing all their schedules and being sure that Charlie's academic needs were met, the house was on an even keel.

"Me," came a small voice from the doorway. Charlie stood there, looking small and vulnerable in Don's old pajamas, still a size too big. "They're fighting about me – Princeton or Stanford. Maybe MIT. And whether or not I go alone."

"They're not fighting," Lydia said.

"You know what I mean." Charlie looked miserable.

Lydia waved him over and he climbed onto the bed, wedging himself between his older brother and sister.

"Yeah, just come on in, no problem," Don said.

Charlie looked at him. "Do you want me to go?"

Don sighed and ruffled his hair. "No."

Charlie pulled his knees to his chest and settled back against the wall. He was still small for his age and was a scrawny tangle of limbs, topped by his unruly, curly hair. Don had a lesser wave to his hair which he hated, and he kept it cropped short. And Lydia, who would have killed for Charlie's locks, had poker-straight tresses that fell just below her shoulders. The boys had Margaret's brown eyes; Lydia's were almost green, a throwback, Alan said, to his grandfather.

"Where do you want to go?" Don asked Charlie. "Princeton, Stanford, MIT?"

"Stanford's still in California," Charlie said thoughtfully. "MIT would be close to Lyddie, when she goes to Berklee. But … but I really want Princeton." He sighed. "It's like I don't get a vote. You, you just came in and told them where you were going. Lydia's been telling us forever she's going to Boston. But me …"

His voice trailed off and he looked at them with a slowly dawning dismay. Pasadena. San Bernardino. New Jersey.

The reality hit them simultaneously. In a few months, they'd be living in different places. Lydia took a hitching breath. Charlie put his head down on his knees. Don ignored the sudden tightness in his throat and opened his nightstand drawer, rifling through the contents until he found a deck of cards. He shifted so they were sitting in more of a triangle and dealt into the space between them.

"No counting," he warned Charlie.

"What are we doing?" his brother asked, obediently picking up his hand.

Don looked at his sister. "Lyddie, got any fours?"

She smiled weakly. "Go fish."

They'd played four rounds when Margaret and Alan came upstairs, both of them looking tired and a little irritated. "Princeton it is," Alan said simply. "Mom's going to go with you."

Charlie broke into a grin. Lydia was staring at her parents, stunned.

"You're moving out?" Lydia said. "You and Dad aren't going to live together?"

"No," Don interrupted her. "It's not like that. It's not – right, Dad?"

There was a heavy silence in the room. Margaret and Alan didn't look at each other, which made Lydia and Don exchange a nervous glance.

"Donny's right, I'm not moving out, not like that," Margaret said. "But Charlie's only thirteen years old. He can't go alone."

"He's old enough to do quantum physics, or whatever he's doing, and he can't get on a plane by himself?" Lydia said. "What about me?"

"You can hang out with me," Alan said soothingly. "Mom and Charlie will be home on breaks, Donny will come home on weekends – we'll hold down the fort." When Lydia looked at him dubiously, he teased, "Come on, you don't want to leave your old man all alone, do you?"

Margaret came into the room and cupped her hand under Lydia's chin. "I didn't think you'd want to move to New Jersey," she said softly. "You've been here your whole life. I thought you'd want to finish high school with your friends. But if you want to come, of course you can come."

"I don't want to come," Lydia said, pulling away from her mother and heading for the door. "But you could have asked."

**

* * *

**

Lydia was up and dressed early the next morning, intending to get out the door before anyone else woke. Her plan was foiled when she tiptoed down the stairs and found Charlie already sitting at the table. He was studying a box of Raisin Bran, and as Lydia sat down, he pushed it toward her.

"Here, you go first," he said. "I was reading the contents by volume. There's only one bowl missing, and that means there are approximately 254 raisins left."

Lydia felt absurdly close to tears. "God, Charlie."

"You like raisins," he shrugged.

He got up to get the milk, and when he returned, poured it over his sister's cereal.

"Thanks," she whispered. Damn. She was actually going to miss this little geek.

"Don't be mad at me," Charlie said suddenly, a little desperately. "I didn't ask her to. I'm not even sure I want her to. But I don't want to go by myself."

"I'm not mad at you." Lydia took a bite of cereal. "I'm just … I mean, just me and Daddy? I'm just trying to wrap my head around it, is all."

"Look on the bright side," Charlie said, pouring a bowl of his own. "You'll always have hot water."


	6. Chapter Four

_I don't own Numb3rs, Elton John, The Monkees, Billy Joel, John Fogerty, or anyone else that Lydia likes to play. _

* * *

**Chapter Four  
(Spring and early summer, 1988)**

When Lydia didn't come out to meet him after baseball practice, Don went searching the school for her. He didn't have to look long – she was in the band room, pounding so hard on the piano that the notes were distorted.

Don sat down next to her, facing the room, so their left shoulders were almost touching. He waited until she stopped before saying, "What are you doing?"

"Practicing for the talent show."

"You sound like you're trying to kill the piano."

"Shut up, Donny," she said, sounding suddenly vicious. "Just shut up." She brought her hands down furiously, and, atypically, hit the wrong chord. The jarring noise made them both wince. "I have to figure this out. The show is in two weeks and I still have no idea what I'm going to play."

"Well, can you figure it out at home?" Don asked. "Because it's going on six, and I'm starving."

"Then go," she said. "I'm not hungry. I'll find a ride. Or I'll call Dad later."

Her fingers danced over the keys. Don recognized the old Elton John tune immediately: "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" one of Lydia's favorites.

_While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters  
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers  
Turn around and say good morning to the night _

"That's you and Charlie," Lydia said presently. "Sons of lawyers."

Old Elton John was never a good sign. Don reached a hand over to stop her. "Lydia," he said, his voice very gentle, "What's going on? I feel like I missed the beginning of the battle."

"I'm not mad at you," Lydia said. "I'm a little mad for you, though. And I am furious for me." She shook off Don's hands and slipped effortlessly into "Someone Saved My Life Tonight," singing quietly.

_When I think of those east end lights  
Muggy nights  
Curtains drawn in the little room downstairs_

"That might work," she said. "For the show." She played into the chorus and said, "You remember when the show is?"

"Sure," Don said. "May 21."

"Yeah. Which is the same day of the state championship."

"If we qualify," Don reminded her. "So you're upset because you might not come to the game, or I might not come to the show, or what?"

"Neither." The Monkees, now. "Shades of Grey." "I'm upset because Mom and Dad are going out to Princeton with Charlie, and they won't be back until the 23rd."

"That can't be right," Don said. "You must have the dates wrong."

_It was easy then to know what was fair  
When to keep and when to share  
How much to protect your heart  
And how much to care_

"Nope." She leaned against him, but kept playing. "That's what I thought too, but it turns out they're having some sort of reception for Charlie. They asked Mom what weekend was good. She either didn't check or didn't remember, and when I told her, she said it was all done and she was sorry. She said the plane tickets are non-refundable. And they're both going. They didn't even think maybe Dad could stay back with us, you know? They just said we were old enough to handle a couple of days alone. Mom said it was a good thing – they trusted us not to have a wild party or burn the house down or something."

Don didn't know what to say. Lydia kept playing, quietly and beautifully. The baseball team was two wins away from the state championship. At least one of his parents had been at almost every game he'd ever played, beginning in Little League, and he never imagined they wouldn't be at the last game of his high school career. He couldn't remember ever missing one of Lydia's performances – any of them, ever.

"Hey," she said. "Do you ever get the feeling they've picked their kid?"

Don drew in his breath, almost a gasp. "Not on purpose, Lydia," he said. "I can't believe that. Not ever on purpose."

She lifted her hands from the keys and folded them in her lap. "It all turns out the same," she said. "It doesn't matter if it's on purpose or not."

* * *

Alan, Margaret and Charlie left Thursday night, the 19th. Don drove them to the airport. Lydia wouldn't go. 

"I can't," she said. "I still don't know what I'm going to play on Saturday."

"Lyddie, I did not do this on purpose," Margaret said for the umpteenth time. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what else to say."

"I know, you keep saying it." She waved her arm dismissively at them. "Go on, have fun, fly safe, love you, see you Monday."

"Call us, all right?" Alan said. "Let us know how it turns out. How it all turns out."

He looked pointedly at Don. The championship game was at three in San Clemente, more than an hour away. The talent show started at seven, but Lydia had to be there by six. It didn't make any sense for her to try to catch any of Don's game. Don had talked Coach into letting him take his own car, instead of riding the team bus, and he was hoping he could get back in time to see Lydia play.

"We will," Don promised, herding them out the door. "Come on, you'll miss your flight."

Saturday night, Lydia was waiting nervously backstage for her cue. She'd finally settled on playing an old Billy Joel tune, "Summer, Highland Falls," mostly because she loved the lines about sadness or euphoria. She put herself as far back on the program as she could and tried not to look for her brother.

"Hey! Lydia!"

She looked up. Rob Krumholtz, a friend of Don's who'd gone down to the game, waved her over. "They won!"

She gasped. "They did?"

"They did. Your brother made the most incredible catch. He jumped straight up from second base, put up his hand, and boom, third out. I swear to God he was six feet off the ground. It was like he had springs in his cleats. It saved our lead, and probably the game."

She was beaming. "Thanks so much for telling me."

"No sweat. Don's on his way back. He was about ten minutes behind me, I think."

She was tempted to sneak out to the hallway to look for him when she heard, "Lydia, you're up."

She nodded at the stage manager and walked through the curtain, sitting down at the piano. On impulse, she played the first two bars of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" and said into the mike, "Our Bulldogs are the California state champions, did you hear?"

The place went wild. They were still clapping when she put her hands on the keys and took a deep breath, and then began John Fogerty's "Centerfield." She hadn't really practiced it. She wasn't sure how it would sound on a piano. But it felt right, so she trusted her instincts.

_Well, beat the drum and hold the phone  
The sun came out today  
We're born again, there's new grass on the field  
A-roundin' third, and headed for home  
it's a brown-eyed handsome man  
Anyone can understand the way I feel  
_

She rocked the house.

When the song was over, her fingertips ached, but she knew she'd nailed it, the same way Don could tell a sweet pitch coming toward him or Charlie could squint at a blackboard and see numerical miracles. As the applause started, she could hear Don yelling over everyone else, and she shaded her eyes to see him at the back of the auditorium, still in his uniform, two fingers in his mouth to whistle.

No one was surprised when she took first place.

* * *

There was a picture from Don and Charlie's graduation of the three Eppes children: Lydia flanked by her capped-and-gowned brothers, all of them with their arms around each other's shoulders, mugging for the camera. An enlarged copy hung on the living room wall. Smaller versions stood on Alan's desk at work, in Don's wallet, on Lydia's nightstand, on Charlie's bulletin board, and on the writing table in the small apartment Margaret was renting in New Jersey. 

It would be the last picture of the three of them together for almost fifteen years.


	7. Chapter Five

_I could find nothing on the Milton Award so I made it -- perhaps it, like CalSci, is fictitious. I'm also not a math whiz, so that's made up as well, though I tried to base it on real things so it would sound plausible. _

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Christmas 1988**

The lights from the Eppes' house were visible from almost a block away, and Margaret pointed in delight. "Oh," she said. "You did the decorations!"

Don, behind the wheel of his father's car, nodded. "Yeah, last Sunday."

"They're just perfect." Margaret turned her head to look at Charlie in the back seat. "Charlie? Sweetie? Did you see?"

Charlie's head was bent as he scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. Don put the car in park and reached back to him, pulling his headphones askew. "Mom's talking to you," he said gruffly.

He knew Charlie was there under protest. He'd delayed their departure from Princeton twice and finally, when he hinted that he'd rather stay in New Jersey alone, Margaret threw his clothes and papers into a suitcase and practically put him bodily on the plane. Don was trying to keep his tone even – Alan's last words to him, before he'd left for the airport, had been, "Don't pick a fight with your brother."

Charlie jerked away from Don's hand, mightily annoyed. He was almost there. He could almost see it. If he could only spread out the papers, maybe set up the blackboards in the garage …

The front door opened. "Mom!" Lydia called, racing down the stairs. "Hey! Mom!"

Charlie and Margaret had been home only once, for the long Thanksgiving weekend, and Lydia was surprised she'd missed her mother as much as she had. Don and Charlie left for college the same week -- Lydia calmly kissed Margaret goodbye, and even gave Charlie a quick squeeze, but when she and Alan dropped Don off at his dorm five days later, she hugged her big brother like he was going off to war and then cried all the way home.

Since then, Don had made it home sporadically and while Margaret wrote and called often, Charlie was buried in numbers. His phone conversations were peppered with numbers and equations and unabashed admiration of one Dr. Larry Fleinhardt, his quantum physics professor.

"Dad?" Lydia whispered once, her hand covering the mouthpiece, "Do we even know what quantum physics is?"

Now, hugging her mother tightly, Lydia didn't care about any of that. She was just happy they'd all be together, even her geek of a baby brother, whom she had also missed more than she'd expected.

Don went around back to open the trunk and as Alan pulled his wife into his arms, Lydia pulled Charlie's door open. "Hey," she said enthusiastically. "How are you?"

"Sh," Charlie answered, scowling at his scrap paper. A moment later, he got out of the car, still focused on the paper, and barely looked at anything else.

"What's going on?" Alan asked.

"Long story." Margaret smiled and Alan touched her cheek, than ran his hand through her hair. The separation had been good for them. It had forced them to talk, really talk – long, late night, long-distance conversations and lengthy letters that the two of them would cherish. Years later, they would realize they'd be courting all over again, rediscovering why they'd fallen in love in the first place.

Lydia had roasted a chicken for dinner. In her mother's absence, she'd decided to learn to cook. Alan, a decent chef himself, had spent some time giving her pointers, and the two of them often spent a whole Sunday afternoon playing with new recipes. Don sometimes drove over from San Bernardino with a couple of friends to reap the benefits of the experiments.

Dinner was a noisy, catching up affair – Don had decided to major in criminal justice. Lydia liked a boy named Frank Bellows. ("No, Donny, he doesn't still pick his nose, shut up.") Alan talked about a new building downtown he was beginning work on. Margaret had established a few steady law clients and was helping a group of neighbors, pro bono, fight their landlord, who was raising their rents without fixing the things wrong with the apartments.

"Just like the old days," she said fondly to Alan, who reached over the table to take her hand. "I'm still a little bit of a radical at heart, I guess."

Only Charlie sat silently, picking absently at his food. By the end of the meal, when Alan rose to put on a pot of coffee and slice up the cake he'd made for dessert, Charlie was squirming uncomfortably in his seat.

"What's the matter, gotta pee?" Lydia teased.

"No. Um. I need to work," he said finally.

"It's Christmas, come on." Don reached out, intending to cuff Charlie's shoulder playfully, but his younger brother pulled away and looked pleadingly at Margaret.

"Go on," she said quietly, and Charlie bolted up the stairs for his room.

Alan watched him, trying not to be hurt that he'd barely gotten a hug and a smile from his youngest child. "What's going on?"

"He's working on a treatise for the American Journal of Mathematics," Margaret said. "It's very prestigious – he'll be the youngest person to be published in it."

"He's a genius," Don said dryly. "He'll be the youngest person to do a lot of things."

Alan looked intrigued. "What's it about?"

"Honestly, I have no idea," Margaret said. "He's tried to explain it to me – but he says it's the beginning of a conversion sequence, I think he called it."

"Does he have to do it now?" Lydia asked. "I mean, is there a deadline or something?"

"No, there's not a deadline, per se, but I don't think he can help it," Margaret said thoughtfully. "The numbers get stuck in his head, and this is his way to get them out. He's … well, he's driven, I guess you'd say."

"Wouldn't that make him a little schizophrenic?" Lydia muttered at Don. Don choked back a chuckle, then flushed and pulled Lydia out of the room when both their parents turned to glare at them.

Four days after Christmas, the elder Eppeses were preparing to go into Los Angeles overnight. As a holiday gift, Alan purchased tickets to a play and made reservations at a hotel. Don and Lydia were a little embarrassed but also pleased, both of them privately worried their parents' separation meant more than they'd been told.

"Keep an eye on Charlie," Margaret said to them as Alan helped her on with her coat. "When he's working like this, he tends to forget everything else. Make sure he eats, see if you can push him into bed."

"You're not serious," Don said, and his mother gave him a fierce look.

"I am serious," she said firmly. "Do as I ask."

It was a tone Don had never argued with; being in college did not change that. "Yes, ma'am, I will," he said sincerely.

Lydia was far less gracious, waiting until their parents had left before commenting, "Charlie's going to be living with Mom and Dad when he's thirty, you watch."

Don snorted. "So what are you up to tonight?"

She shrugged. "Thought I might hang with you. Is that okay?"

"Sure," Don said easily. "We can rent a movie, if you want."

Most of Don's friends were home for break, but he didn't mind giving up an evening for his sister. He liked college and he liked the freedom living away from home gave him, but he felt guilty because he was relieved to no longer be watching out for his siblings.

"I'll make popcorn," she said. "You pick."

**

* * *

**

Don yawned hugely as he stumbled his way back to bed. He'd drunk at least three cans of Coke and he hoped this trip to the bathroom would be his last. As he passed Charlie's room, he saw the door was ajar. When he'd come upstairs at midnight, Charlie had been pacing and mumbling. In deference to his mother's wishes, Don had tried to send him to bed, but Charlie ignored him.

Don glanced inside, then stopped and pushed the door open. The bed was empty. In fact, the room was empty.

"Shit," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. He yawned again, trying to wake himself up enough to look around. Five minutes later, though, he was entirely alert, fighting down the beginning of panic. Charlie was not in the house.

Don was heading into the kitchen, thinking he might actually have to find the number his father left and use it, when a light outside caught his eye. It was coming from the garage.

Don stopped to grab a baseball bat from the front closet and went cautiously outside. But there was no intruder, just his brother, with large pieces of art paper taped all over the walls, supplementing the four blackboards that were already set up there. He had a pile of books on an old desk and a fistful of chalk and markers in his left hand.

"What are you doing?"

Charlie jumped and let out a little shriek. Don snickered in spite of himself.

"It's a numerical analysis of a random matrix equation," Charlie said. "There has to be a simpler way to do it and it's right there. I can almost see it. It would be easier with more blackboards."

"No, I mean what are you doing out here?"

"I ran out of wall space inside."

"Shit, Charlie, please tell me you didn't write all over your walls," Don groaned. "Dad will kill you."

"I didn't. That's why I came out here."

Charlie looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and his unruly hair looked particularly wild, giving him the appearance of the stereotypical mad scientist. Don glanced at his watch and said, "Buddy, it's three in the morning. Come on. Get some sleep, look at it tomorrow."

"No, I can't stop, I'll lose it." Charlie turned his back on Don and kept writing, pausing every few minutes to consult one of the books, darting from one set of equations to the next, mumbling.

"Charlie." When there was no answer, Don crossed to him and took his arm. "Charlie."

"You can stay but stop talking to me," Charlie whispered, his eyes moving rapidly over the figures. "It's here. I just have to find it."

After ten minutes, Don gave up. He brought Charlie a sandwich and a bottle of water and went back to bed.


	8. Chapter Six

_The disclaimers continue. The next chapter is right behind this one -- again, too long to be combined. _

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Spring 1989**

Late the following spring, Charlie, at fourteen, published his paper and then became the youngest person to win the Milton Award. The prize for mathematics was given in a formal ceremony, held at Princeton in June, and carried with it an award of $5,000.

Alan flew out to see Charlie receive the honor, but neither Don nor Lydia could go – Don was at the end of his first collegiate baseball season and Lydia had a band competition.

That Sunday morning, Don packed up his books and drove out to Pasadena. Alan was due back later that afternoon, and Don had said he'd pick him up at the airport, but he figured he'd spend the day at the house. It was quieter there for studying, and he wanted to check up on Lydia. She'd talked Alan into leaving her home alone, promising to call Don or one of the neighbors if anything happened.

He unlocked the front door quietly, sure that, since it was only 9:30, Lydia would still be in bed, then stepped over the threshold and stopped short with a gasp.

The house was trashed. His first thought was that they'd been robbed. He actually took a step backwards, thinking he should go to the neighbors and call the police, when he realized that nothing seemed to be missing. But there were empty beer bottles all over the room, chips and popcorn ground into the carpet and spilled on the furniture, and there was a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. He dropped his backpack and took the stairs two at a time, throwing open his sister's door without bothering to knock. Lydia was sound asleep next to Frank Bellows.

Don didn't think; he reached across his sister and dragged Frank out of her bed. "What the hell are you doing?" he snarled, not sure which one of them he was talking to.

Lydia sat up, trying to cover herself. She stared at her brother, bleary and confused, then suddenly clapped a hand to her mouth and bolted, naked, across the hall to the bathroom.

"Get dressed and get out before I beat the shit out of you," Don hissed at Frank.

Frank obeyed immediately. Don wrinkled his nose. The room smelled like sex and stale booze, and it made him feel a little sick. He opened the window and took Lydia's robe from the back of her door, then crossed the hall to hand it in to her.

He leaned against the wall and waited. A minute later, he heard the toilet flush, then the water in the sink running as Lydia brushed her teeth and threw cold water on her face. She opened the door but stayed in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"I came to study before I have to pick up Dad."

"Dad," Lydia breathed. "Oh my God. Dad."

"It's all right. You've got about seven hours." Don took pity on her and came into the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine cabinet for aspirin and drawing her glass of water.

"Please tell me you used protection," he pleaded softly, handing them to her.

"I stole a condom out of your underwear drawer," she said. "Did you even know you still had those? They don't expire, do they?"

Don sat on the edge of the tub. "Those aren't expired," he said quietly.

"I'll have to dump my trash," Lydia said, rubbing her temples. "And change my sheets."

Don watched her for a minute. "Are you … is this …" his voice trailed off as he realized he didn't want to know if this was Lydia's first time or not.

She held up a palm. "Don't," she warned. "If you hadn't come down you'd never know. And you can't talk – go on, tell me how you didn't sleep with Val Eng after your prom."

"That's different," Don stammered, wondering how she knew that.

"Because you're a boy?" she countered. "It's not different." Lydia swallowed the aspirin. "Donny. I feel like crap, and I don't want to fight with you, and not about this, okay? It's not a big thing. Frank didn't force me to do anything I didn't want to do. We drank too much and I told him he could stay. That's all. Okay?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice, wondering why he found the whole idea so upsetting. Lydia was seventeen – he'd had sex by the time he was seventeen, and the girl he had sex with was someone's sister. But it still didn't sit right with him.

"You didn't hurt Frank, did you?" Lydia said. "Because I kind of like him."

"No. I just told him to leave." Don stood up and extended his hand. Lydia took it without question and he pulled her to her feet. "Go make some coffee," he said. "I'll get rid of the beer bottles."

* * *

Don, Charlie and Margaret came home for the summer. Don found a job at the batting cages and was there seven days a week, either working for money or working on hitting. Lydia kept seeing Frank Bellows, who refused to come around if Don was home. She spent long, lazy days at the beach, dishing out ice cream at a stand and perfecting her tan. Charlie spent long hot days in the garage – it was expected he'd graduate from Princeton a year ahead of schedule. Sometimes, a whole week would go by without the five of them being in the house at the same time. 

They had settled into a new pattern.


	9. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

**April 1990**

It was almost ten when Don unlocked the door of his dorm room. His game had gone extra innings and they'd lost, but he'd played well – two hits, three RBIs, two turned double-plays, no errors. And there had been a scout – at least, he and Dave Morrow, his buddy and teammate, assumed it was a scout – a guy in a tie making notes and stopping to talk to the coach.

He still had a paper to finish and a chapter to read, and he was thinking about a hot shower and pizza delivery as he pushed the flashing button on the answering machine.

"Don. It's Dad. Call me back as soon as you get this, no matter how late."

Even if Alan had not sounded so quietly urgent, the mere words would have made Don return his call immediately. Alan called once a week or so, leaving far more casual messages: "Hey, Donny, it's Dad, just calling to say hi" or "Dad here, did you see the Dodgers signed Mike Maddux?"

Don didn't even bother taking off his jacket. He kept his keys in his hand as he dialed. When Alan answered, he blurted out, "What's wrong?"

"Have you seen your sister?" Alan returned.

"Lyddie?" Don said stupidly, as if he suddenly had more than one. "No. Why, what happened?"

"It seems she's disappeared," Alan answered, his voice rising in fear. "Caroline – you remember her friend, Caroline Farr? She thought she might be headed toward you, so I was hoping she was there."

"What?" Don exclaimed. "What happened?"

"I don't know what happened," his father said. "She never showed up for dinner. Around seven, I started calling her friends, and Caroline said she'd been at her house, and was talking about going to see you."

"I haven't heard from her today," Don said. "Did she take the car?" Since getting her driver's license, Lydia had been using Margaret's car.

"No, that's here."

"Does she have money?"

"I don't know."

Don closed his eyes and swore to himself. "Go upstairs and look on her bookshelf. Check between chapters four and five of Alice in Wonderland. And please don't ever let on I told you this."

Alan put down the phone and, without comment, did as Don instructed. A moment later he reported, "There's no money there."

"I'll go look for her," Don said. "Maybe she took the bus, maybe she's already on campus. Did you call the police?"

"Not yet."

"Did you call Mom?"

Alan was quiet for moment, then said, "Your mother will just worry. She has her hands full with Charlie. But maybe I'll give the police station a call, just in case."

"I'm sure she's fine," Don said. "I'll call you back."

He hung up and called the bus line. The next one from Pasadena was due in forty minutes. He headed there immediately, not having any other ideas. He drove slowly the whole way, scanning the sidewalks, wondering what he was going to do if he was wrong.

But his instincts were correct, and when Lydia got off the bus, she didn't seem surprised to see him standing there. She walked over to him, as if she'd been expecting him to be there all along. "Well, this saves me the phone call and the cab fare," she said.

"Dad's really worried," he said. "What happened?"

"I didn't get into Berklee," she answered.

Don's heart sank. "Oh, Lyddie, I'm so sorry," he said softly. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I thought the audition went okay, and I've got the technical skills – I just wasn't good enough, I guess."

"You're terrific, and they're idiots," Don said, and was rewarded by a small smile. "So what's your second choice? Maybe you can reapply next year."

The smile faded at once. "Yeah. Well. Here's the thing. Remember how Mom and Dad kept saying I ought to have a back up plan? I should have listened. I didn't want to go anywhere else, so why apply anywhere else?" Her eyes started to fill with tears. "It didn't occur to me I wouldn't get in. What an ass I am."

Don hugged her then, and when her breath blew into his face, he could smell alcohol.

"Where'd you get the booze?"

"Stole it."

For one wild second, Don thought she'd actually knocked over a liquor store, and then she said, "Caroline's dad only ever drinks beer. The bottle was dusty. He'll never miss it."

"Come on." Don took her arm and steered her through the bus station. "We need to find a phone and call Dad."

Lydia shook her head.

"Yes," Don said firmly. "You can stay with me tonight, but we can't have Dad thinking you're lost."

Between the change in his pocket and Lydia's backpack, Don found enough to make a brief call to Alan. He talked their father out of coming right to San Bernardino and promised to deliver Lydia back the following day.

Lydia was silent for the ride back to Cal State. When Don opened the door of his room, she looked around and asked, "Where's your roommate?"

"He has a girlfriend with a single," Don answered. "He's never here." He watched his sister shrug off her jacket and kick off her shoes, not sure what to say, and finally decided on doing what he'd started when he got his father's message. He pulled his toiletry bag off his dresser and grabbed a towel, sweats and a t-shirt. "I'm going to shower, okay? And I'm starving. Why don't you order us a pizza? The number's by the phone."

"Okay," she said quietly.

Don pulled his wallet out of his pocket and Lydia waved him off. "I'll pay for it," she said. "It's the least I can do."

When Don returned, the pizza had just arrived. Lydia was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a bottle of wine in the crook of her knees. She was carefully putting a slice on a paper towel for him. A can of Coke sat on the edge of his desk.

"Now, this is service," Don said. "Thanks." He took a bite and asked, "So why didn't you tell Dad?"

"Because he'll flip," she mumbled.

"Lyddie, he will not," Don admonished her. "He'll be surprised, sure, but not mad. Come on. Give him some credit."

"It's all he talks about," she protested. "How we're all on our way to becoming the 'men and woman we're supposed to be.' How he's so proud of all of us. 'A baseball player, a musician and a top-level mathematician,' he says. And he gets that look on his face, you know that look?"

Don chuckled. He knew exactly the look she meant – a mix of pleasure and sorrow that left them wondering if Alan was going to burst into tears or hug them. It had grown worse since Margaret and Charlie went east.

"I did call Mom," Lydia said abruptly. "From Caroline's. Her solution was to have me go out to New Jersey with her next year."

"You could do that," Don said carefully.

"No, I can't. I was too stupid to get into college, so you think I'm going to go hang out with my little brother, who knew more when he was three than I ever will?" She leaned back against the wall. "Maybe I could teach myself guitar; then I could play in the subway for spare change."

"Lyddie --"

"Charlie told me once I had perfect pitch, but he was wrong," she interrupted quietly. "I don't have that, not like you guys do. You – you can feel the ball coming. You just have that instinct. You can make connections. Charlie – he sees things that aren't even there. I don't understand what the hell he's talking about most of the time, but I know it's important. He could change the world, even. But me? I'm just me."

"You play like that, Lydia," Don assured her gently. "You play what's not on the page."

"Then why didn't I get in?" She took a long swallow of wine and held the bottle toward Don. He shook his head. "I'm not completely delusional. I didn't think I'd be the next Carole King. But, shit, Donny, I'd have settled for a one-hit wonder. I thought maybe I was good enough for that."

Her eyes were starting to close. Don leaned over and took the bottle out of her hand, then took the pizza off the bed. She stretched out, like a cat, already falling asleep – or passing out. Don couldn't tell which.

"Want one of my shirts to sleep in?" he asked, covering her with an afghan at the end of the bed.

"I'm fine."

Don glanced at the clock then settled himself at his desk. It didn't matter that it was after midnight, that paper of his was still due in the morning.

"I'm sorry I bothered you," Lydia said, so quietly Don had to strain to hear her. "I didn't know where else to go."

"It's all right," he said, and wondered what his own back-up plan was.

* * *

When the phone rang hours later, Don jerked himself awake, wincing at the bad crick in his neck. He glanced at the bed – Lydia was snoring – and stumbled over to answer.

"Hello."

"Donny."

"Hi, Mom." Don rubbed at his neck and stretched. "What time is it?"

"Seven – I'm sorry if I woke you."

"It's all right. I've got a class in an hour."

"I just talked to Dad and he told me what happened," Margaret said. "Is she all right?"

Don was silent. He had no idea how to answer. Finally, he said, "She's upset. She'll be all right. I have to go to my government class but I'll bring her home later."

"You're a good brother," Margaret said. "Take care of her, sweetie, okay?"

"Sure," Don said, and bit back his sudden, resentful reply: _I've been taking care of Lydia since I was eight years old. _


	10. Chapter Eight

_Thanks to CharmedMummy for agreeing to beta the rest of this tale. I still don't own Numb3rs, CalSci, Princeton, or anyone or anyplace that looks familiar to you. I do not claim to be a math genius, so if there are errors in Charlie's logic they're mine. If you are a baseball fan, check out the Cape Cod League if you ever get the opportunity. And one of my cousins went to Scripps and loved it. I haven't heard from her in a long time, so if by any chance Jannie-turned-Bianca is reading this, e-mail me. :-) Reviews are welcome._

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**October 1990**

"Lydia." Alan stood in her doorway, dressed for work, looking at her worriedly. "Lydia, sweetheart, you have to get up."

"Why?" she mumbled into the pillow. "Where am I going?"

"You can't stay in bed forever."

Lydia rolled over and regarded her father seriously. "Why not?"

Alan sighed. He truly didn't know what to do anymore. Lydia had been devastated by her rejection from Berklee and every alternative he or Margaret suggested had been met with refusal.

It had been a long summer – Charlie was deep in a project, a mathematical paper about random matrices he was calling the Eppes Convergence, which would make him a star in his field. Don was in Massachusetts, playing second base for the Cotuit Kettleers in the Cape Cod Baseball League. Lydia had refused to take her usual job at the ice cream stand and, most disturbing to her parents and little brother, stayed away from the piano completely.

Alan came into the room and sat on the edge of her bed and, after a moment, reached out and stroked her hair. She jerked away from him.

"I'm worried about you."

"I'm just tired, Dad. That's all."

"You're not doing anything to make you tired," Alan said. He paused and then continued, "Tell you what. Get yourself in the shower and pick up your room today, and when I get home, I'll take you to dinner. Maybe we'll drive over and see Donny's new apartment. Wonder what a mess it might be, four boys all together. What do you think?"

"No," she said flatly. "But you can go if you want."

Alan leaned over and kissed his daughter's forehead. "Perhaps I should have used more precise language," he said, sounding oddly like Charlie. "You haven't seen your brother since June. You will be coming with me."

* * *

"I've got something for you," Don said. They had just finished dinner at a local diner. Don and Alan ate heartily, meatloaf and potatoes and apple pie for dessert. Lydia had picked at a wilted salad.

_She does look tired_, Alan thought, _and she looks like she's lost weight_. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and there were circles under her eyes.

Don slid an envelope across the table. Lydia looked at him curiously, and then, after a moment, picked it up and opened it. It was a brochure and application for Scripps College in Claremont.

"You could start in January," Don said quietly. "It's between my place and home – I can pick you up on the way to Pasadena if you want to visit Dad. They've got a music department."

She shook her head, fighting back tears, but Don continued doggedly. "And they've got a women's studies department, art, history, psychology – and dance. You could major in dance."

Lydia snorted, but she opened the brochure. Encouraged, Don went on, "There's a study abroad program – maybe if Charlie ends up at Oxford in the next couple of years, you can go make sure he's eating and sleeping."

Lydia flipped through the brochure. "Did you see how much the tuition is?" she asked.

"It's fine," Alan said gently. "Mom and I will work that out."

"It's a women's college," she muttered, with a trace of her old humor. She looked at Don, a faint smile flitting across her face. "Did you and Dad plan that?"

"I'll be a half hour away," Don said. "You can come visit me and look at the guys, and I'll be right there to make sure they don't look back."

She actually laughed then, and Alan busied himself with adding more cream to his coffee, so neither of his children would see the emotion on his face. It was the first real laugh he'd heard from her in several weeks.

"I think she'll apply," Alan said later, on the telephone to Margaret. He had the receiver cradled between his ear and his shoulder as he folded the laundry into neat piles onto his bed. "It made all the difference that Donny gave her the information – that was a great idea, dear."

"It would be nice to have her nearby when we move back," Margaret answered. "I feel like I missed so much."

Charlie was due to finish up at Princeton the following spring, coinciding with his latest publication, and had already decided to come home and do his graduate work at nearby CalSci. "Snow's overrated," he'd told Alan. He would be living at home, and Alan was thrilled to have both his youngest and his wife back under the same roof full time.

"Charlie is going to somehow do his master's and Ph.D together," Margaret said. "I didn't even know that was possible. And Professor Fleinhardt is talking about coming along, taking a position at CalSci so he can continue to mentor Charlie."

"How's the paper coming?"

"He's in the editing stages. I proofed it for him – of course I didn't understand the half of it. My God, that boy cannot spell."

Alan chuckled.

"Dr. Fleinhardt thinks it's significant enough to knock off most of his master's work. Which, now that I think of it, is probably how he'll do both programs together." Margaret paused. "And speaking of Dr. Fleinhardt – Charlie's staying on campus."

"I thought we agreed --"

"We did," Margaret interrupted, "but Dr. Fleinhardt – Larry – pointed out Charlie would actually save some time by avoiding the back and forth. He promised to keep an eye on him and there was a single room on campus right next to the resident advisor, and so far it's been fine."

Alan sighed.

"And get this – he's playing intramural basketball," Margaret said.

"You're kidding," Alan said in disbelief. "He's still so small."

"But he's fast. It's a collegiate league, but some of his teammates are the sons of professors, so he's not entirely the odd man out. He's not starting or anything, but he gets some time most games. He really likes it, and I think he needs to use his body as well as his mind."

"You know what that is," Alan said.

"One thing he can do like Don," Margaret replied.

"Still looking up to his big brother," Alan said thoughtfully. "Not a bad thing."

"He's been a little worried about Lyddie, I think," Margaret said. "He'll be glad to hear about Scripps." She sighed wistfully. "Oh, Alan, I can't wait for spring. Really. All of us in the same state, relatively close – I've missed you all so much."

"I know," Alan said. "It will be nice to have that year before Don graduates. After that, he could go anywhere."

"Maybe he'll go to law school," Margaret mused.

"He's hoping for the majors."

"Oh, I know. And that would be wonderful – but allow me a little fantasy of my son and I setting up shop together."

Alan folded his last t-shirt and crossed the room to close the door. "Let me tell you a little bit about my fantasy," he said. "It involves waking up every morning with my beautiful wife."

* * *

**June 1992**

The Major League Baseball draft was two weeks after Don graduated from Cal State. When he was picked up by the Stockton Rangers, a single-A club of the San Diego Padres, Alan and Margaret threw a huge party in the backyard. The neighbors came, old friends of the family, kids the Eppes children had gone to school with, teammates of Don's, new college pals of Lydia's, and even one Dr. Larry Fleinhardt. Margaret's aunt Irene was there, and Alan's brother Tommy and his wife Becky. The food and alcohol flowed freely.

Lydia was standing with her old friend Caroline, who was attending the University of San Diego. Lydia had just finished her first year at Scripps with an undeclared major and mediocre grades.

"Maybe college isn't for me," she'd ventured to her parents.

"Maybe you should finish and then decide," her mother always answered.

Charlie sidled up to them, a bottle of water in his hand. He'd grown four inches in the last year – privately, Margaret noted he had finally grown into his face. Now almost seventeen, his voice had somewhat deepened and he was no longer completely tongue-tied around the opposite sex. He was more comfortable studying at CalSci than he had ever been anywhere else – he was home every night with his parents and though he was in the graduate classes, he was at least close in age, if not ability, to many of the other students on campus.

"That's Aunt Becky's third wine cooler," Lydia observed. "She's going to be totally hammered."

"Nah, not necessarily," Charlie answered. "She's not a big woman, that's true, but the alcohol content in that Bartles and Jaymes is what? Like five percent or something? And she's eating. She could have two more and still drive Uncle Tommy home, if she spaces them out."

Caroline raised her eyebrows at Lydia. Lydia motioned to Caroline to follow and then grabbed Charlie's wrist and pulled him across the yard and into the garage. It had been completely taken over by chalkboards and oversized pads of paper. A battered desk held an assortment of books and markers and an old coffee can filled with chalk. Most of the chalk was from Lydia -- every year for birthdays and holidays, she bought Charlie boxes of chalk and Don packages of gum, because he chewed it obsessively at the plate.

"You can figure that out?" she said. "You can make, like, a formula, for how much we can drink and not get stinking drunk?"

"Sure. With the right data. It'd be pretty simple, even."

Lydia grinned delightedly at Caroline and handed him a piece of chalk. "Can you show us how to do that?"

Charlie hesitated. Caroline reached over and stroked his cheek. "Oh, come on, Charlie," she purred. "What good's that big brain of yours if you can't educate a girl?"

Charlie flushed, half in pleasure, half in embarrassment, and took the chalk from his sister. "Okay. Well. You'd need to know the person's weight, the alcohol content, what you've eaten, and you guys are girls, so it will work on you more quickly …" his voice trailed off and his eyes glazed. Lydia recognized the look -- lost in the numbers – and settled back to wait.

Charlie wrote quickly, moving from board to board. Caroline was impressed in spite of herself.

Fifteen minutes later, he pointed to an equation. "Here. This is the drinker's weight. This is how many calories he's consumed in the last twelve hours. This is the gender – two for women, one for men, that's a fixed variable, which is an oxymoron, but that's what it's called."

"Charlie," Lydia said impatiently.

"Right, sorry. This is the rate of consumption – how many ounces per hour. This factor is the alcohol content, which is on the bottle, and if you run the numbers through this formula and stick with the same alcohol content – like don't go from beer to moonshine – and pace the drinks the same, this …" he circled a large X "… will be how many ounces you can drink without getting pulled over by the CHP."

Caroline's eyes were huge. "Holy shit," she breathed. "Lydia, you got a pen? Piece of paper?"

"Here." Lydia took one of the markers and, on one of the large art pads, copied the equation twice, as small as she could manage with the thick Sharpie. She tore the paper loose and carefully ripped off the numbers, giving one to Caroline and keeping one for herself.

She kissed Charlie on her way out the door. "You're the best," she said. "Thanks. Don't forget to erase that."

"No one will know what it is," he protested, but the girls were already gone, in search of Aunt Becky's wine coolers.

_TBC_


	11. Chapter Nine

_Our disclaimer continues. Since I don't know what Don's number was, I gave him 27, after my favorite player, Carlton Fisk. If anyone knows what it really is, I'll happily change it. Warning: there is a bad word in this chapter. You know how irritating siblings can be. _

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**July 1994**

"Strike three," Charlie said under his breath, seconds before Don swung and missed. He made a mark on the sheet in front of him. "Low and away. He can't lay off the low-and-aways."

"Can you stop that?" Lydia asked. "Because you're taking all the suspense out of it."

It was a beautiful day in July, two days after Don's 24th birthday. Alan and Margaret were away on a rare vacation to Tahoe. That morning Charlie and Lydia, pretty much on impulse, had checked Don's schedule and then got into Margaret's car and drove the five hours to Stockton. They found a cheap motel, dropped their bags, then went to the Rangers' ballpark and bought tickets.

The game had just started when they found their seats, and Don, walking back to the bench after his first at-bat, hadn't noticed them. Lydia waited until the third out and then wandered down to the dugout, standing behind the chain link fence. "Hey, twenty-seven!" she called as the players trotted out to the field. Don didn't turn, but when he reached second base, he glanced up. Even from 150 feet away, she could see a smile lighting his face and he raised his glove briefly in acknowledgement.

She went to the concession stand and came back with two beers, handing one to Charlie.

"I can't drink that."

"I won't tell anyone you're not twenty-one." When Charlie looked at her skeptically, she shrugged. "Then I'll drink it. Put it out of the sun." She watched his eyes darting around the field, gathering the data of shadows and the positions of the dugouts and bleachers. "Are you going to sit there the whole game and do sabermetrics?"

Charlie laughed. "You even know what it's called."

"We did this trivia tournament in the dorm last year," Lydia said. "My team made it to the final round because I knew sabermetrics was baseball math." She took a swallow of her beer. "Then, of course, the next question was what's the capital of Sudan, so that was that."

"It's Khartoum," Charlie said.

"Show off."

Charlie glanced at her sideways. Lydia didn't offer much information about her life at Scripps. Charlie had overheard their parents talking and knew her grades were steadily slipping. "Did you declare?"

"What, a major? No. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. I think I should stop wasting Mom and Dad's money, but I don't know what else I'd do." She pulled her cap lower, shading her eyes from the sun. "You remember when Don played for Cal State, and you could predict his walks? Can you still do that?"

"'Course," Charlie said, a little scornfully. "It's his stance that gives it away, not his team."

"So you've seen his stance. How many?"

Charlie considered. He closed his eyes, picturing Don's posture at the plate, his mind automatically filling in the angles and trajectories. "Two. You wanna bet?"

"Hell, no, I'll lose."

The second walk didn't come until the bottom of seventh inning. Don scored as the Rangers rallied, closing their deficit to one run. The bases were loaded in the eighth as Don came up, and the count was three and one when the pitcher threw a slow and lazy meatball.

Lydia gasped and sat up straighter, already beginning to clap. "He's going to hit a grand slam!"

Charlie spoke simultaneously. "Dammit. Look at his left foot."

Don connected, a solid hit right into the hands of the diving shortstop. Double play.

Lydia winced. Charlie shook his head and marked his sheet. "Sometimes I wish the numbers lied once in a while," he mumbled sadly.

The Rangers lost, 8 to 7.

Charlie and Lydia waited while the park emptied out. The ball players emerged an hour or so later, and they hung back, watching some little kids and scantily clad women ask for autographs.

"Don's got groupies," Charlie said in an incredulous voice.

"Mathematicians don't have groupies?" Lydia teased as Don signed a baseball for a little girl and made his way over to them.

"Perhaps I should reconsider my chosen vocation," Charlie said woefully.

"Hey!" Don kissed Lydia's cheek and clapped Charlie on the shoulder. He was genuinely pleased to see them but his sister could see something dark just behind his eyes. "What are you guys doing here? Where's Mom and Dad?"

"Tahoe," Charlie answered. "We came to take you out for your birthday."

"My birthday was Friday."

"So we're tardy. Shoot us."

"Eppes!" Jason Fisk, the Rangers' manager, was walking toward the parking lot. "We're not done with this. Come on, let's go."

Don gave him a brief nod and turned back to his siblings. He had to laugh – they looked as they did when they were all in high school and he recruited one of them to tell Margaret he'd be late because he had detention.

"Are you in trouble?" Charlie asked quietly, confirming Don's suspicion.

"No, buddy, but I got this thing."

"What thing?"

"Just … just a thing. I didn't know you were coming."

"Well," Charlie replied, a little petulantly, "if we had told you, it wouldn't have been a surprise, would it?"

Don sighed. "Look, you're not driving back to Pasadena now, are you?"

"It's summer," Lydia said, trying to hide her disappointment. "No plans, no obligations. We have tickets to tomorrow's game too."

A shadow ran across Don's face, but when he spoke, his tone was light. "Meet me for breakfast. Chuck, write this down – Desmond's Diner, on North Hunter Street, in Eden Square. Great little place. I'll even treat. Say, ten?"

"Will that get you to the park on time for batting practice?" Charlie wanted to know. "You've got a one o'clock start."

Again, that shadow. Lydia opened her mouth to ask Don if he was all right but he'd already turned, walking toward Fisk. "No, it's fine. I'll see you then."

* * *

Don was already sitting in a corner booth when Charlie and Lydia arrived the next morning. Lydia sat beside her older brother and Charlie slid in opposite. He put a disposable camera in the middle of the table.

Don raised his eyebrows. "What's that for?"

"That's because Mom has been complaining that the last good picture she has of the three of us is from your graduation," Lydia answered. "We called Mom and Dad this morning to tell them where we were, in case they called the house and got worried when there was no answer for a few days. So we've been instructed to ask someone for a photo, since who knows when we'll all be together again."

Don took the opening. "Sooner than you think. I quit the team."

"What?" Lydia gasped.

"Why?" Charlie asked at the same time.

"The eighth inning," Don shrugged. "You guys were there."

Charlie stared at him in disbelief. Lydia turned sideways to better face him and said dubiously, "You quit because you hit into a double play?"

"I quit because I'll never not do that," Don said. "Because I'll never be great, and even if I ever get up to the Bigs, I'll always be a second-rate utility guy."

"I could help you," Charlie offered softly. "I could help you with your stance. Teach you to read the pitcher better. If you watch --"

"Dammit, Charlie, it's not like Little League."

"It's exactly like Little League," Charlie corrected him. "You're all bigger, so the numbers have changed, but it's the same equation."

"It doesn't matter. I already quit," Don said brusquely. He took a deep breath. "I'm going to sit for the FBI exam. I called this morning. The next one's in L.A. in two weeks." He pointed a finger into the stunned silence. "Not a word to Mom and Dad. Not until I know I passed."

Charlie was shaking his head, panic starting to show on his face. "No. No, you can't do that. It's too dangerous." Numbers were whirling in his head, more trajectories and angles, but these of bullets, not baseballs. "You might … it's … no. You can't do that."

"Don, this is crazy," Lydia whispered. "This is … since when do you want to be an FBI agent?"

Don didn't answer because he didn't quite know. He had wanted some sort of a back-up plan in case baseball didn't work out, and when the FBI floated up from his subconscious, he had the same internal reaction as his sister: it was a crazy idea. But it was an idea that wouldn't go away and when he'd called the Bureau that morning asking about the requirements and the first steps, it had felt right, almost more right than the smell of dirt and pine tar and the feel of the bat in his hands.

He didn't know how to articulate any of that to his siblings and as guilt rose up inside him for the looks of fear and confusion on their faces, he grumbled, "Thanks a lot for your support."

"You quit," Lydia said, as if she was trying to understand a foreign language. "Just like that."

Don couldn't stand the note of disgust in her voice. "Yes, Little Miss I-didn't-get-into-Berklee-so-I'm-never-playing-music-again," he snapped. "Just like that."

She slammed her hand down on the table. Water sloshed out of Charlie's glass. She stood, her eyes blazing. "Fuck you," she hissed, and stormed out of the restaurant.

Charlie reddened. Don sat stunned. Neither of them had ever heard their sister use that word before.

"You shouldn't have said that to her," Charlie said finally, a quiet note of reproach in his voice. "You don't know how bad it was."

Don leaned back in the booth and raked his hand through his hair. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. "She showed up in San Bernardino, remember? I was right there. You were in New Jersey." He paused. "With Mom," he added, a little nastily.

Charlie flinched, but he folded his arms across his chest and stared Don down, perhaps for the first time in his life. "I meant that summer after. You were in Massachusetts. She stayed in her room almost the whole time. She wouldn't eat or shower or change her clothes. She wouldn't see her friends. And she wouldn't play. A couple of times I saw her sitting at the piano. She'd have her hands ready and she'd just sit there and cry like … like the keys didn't work or something. Dad spent hours trying to find a comparable school but she'd have none of it. Mom wanted her to see a doctor but she wouldn't go. Flat out refused. And she was already eighteen, so they couldn't make her do any of it."

Don was squirming in spite of himself. _Shit. Ah, shit._

"If I hadn't gotten into Princeton, or whatever, I'd be doing math somewhere," Charlie went on. "I don't know why she thought it was Berklee or nothing. But she did, and it was horrible for her, and it was pretty horrible to watch, and you shouldn't have said that to her, Donny." Charlie struggled to keep his voice steady. "It wasn't … it wasn't nice."

Don looked out the window. Lydia was sitting on the trunk of Margaret's car. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. "Order me a veggie omelet," he said. "Get Lydia the French toast. And coffee. I'll be right back."

He half-expected her to run. When she didn't he hoisted himself up next to her and said contritely, "I'm sorry."

"You should be." Lydia refused to look at him. "But you know what? You're right." She kicked her foot against the bumper. "I miss it. So why aren't I doing it? Music, I mean. I'm being totally stupid. I mean, really, what am I doing, trying to piss off Berklee?"

She turned to him then, a look on her face Don had never seen before. "So. I guess it's time to do something about that."

Before Don could ask her what she meant, she slid off the car and held out her hand to him. "You're forgiven. But you're definitely paying for breakfast now."

_TBC_


	12. Chapter Ten

_All of my information about Quantico comes from its Web site and my own imagination. I have no real knowledge of what the San Francisco music scene was like in 1994 either, so we'll call that poetic license. As usual – thank you CharmedMummy, and I own nothing. _

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Fall 1994**

The small package was taped up so securely that Don resorted to hunting on the ground for a sharp rock. He carried the box and the stone to the bleachers surrounding the running track and sat in the first row. He hacked at the binding, torn between exasperated and amused – he was mildly surprised such a suspicious-looking parcel had made it through Quantico's security.

He finally got it open and turned it upside down on the bench beside him. Two packages of gum and a couple of photographs fell out, along with a folded note.

_October 6, 1994_

_Dear Donny,_

_Hi! How's the training academy? Dad said it was at the Marine base – is it like boot camp?_

_So, I have news. I didn't go back to school. As soon as I put my hands on the piano keys, I couldn't believe I stayed away from it for so long. I'm in San Francisco. There was honestly no point in staying at Scripps. I didn't like any of the classes and since I have no idea what I'd do with no major and a bachelor of arts, I figured I'd save my brain and Mom and Dad's money. I packed up and got on a bus. I still can't believe I really did it, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that, right? I've been staying with Ellen – do you remember my friend Ellen? Tall girl, glasses? She's doing her masters at San Francisco State. The best part is they have a music department so I've been sneaking in to play, since I couldn't bring the piano with me. I'm starting to write some of my own songs, too. I'll send you a tape when they're done, someday. _

_I love it here. I'm meeting a lot of interesting people and I'm playing all the time. There are so many clubs. I've already had a couple of gigs – someone is always looking for someone to fill in. I played twice with this Eagles tribute band called "Tequila Sunrise" because I could play "Desperado." They're all pissed off the Eagles are back together. And there's a festival next week, and I'm going to play the keyboards simply because I knew "Saturday in the Park." Pretty cool. _

_News of home … Charlie is probably going to London in the spring. Oxford is going to pay for him to get another PhD. I told him I'd come visit and we could do a pub crawl. Mom and Dad are good. They weren't too happy with me quitting school, but I told them we'd talked in Stockton and you guys helped me see, school or no school, I had to go back to my music. Besides which, I'm 22 years old!_

_That's it for now. Write to me. Or call me – Ellen's number is 415-555-5309. _

_Please be careful, okay? I miss you._

_Love always,  
Lyddie_

Don sighed deeply. _They weren't too happy with me quitting school, but I told them we'd talked in Stockton and you guys helped me see, school or no school, I had to go back to my music. _He wondered if she'd used those exact words and, if so, how angry Alan and Margaret might be with him. And with Charlie, too, maybe.

Margaret and Alan had been much calmer than he'd expected about his decision to join the FBI. Like Charlie and Lydia, they'd expressed surprise, and exchanged a glance Don couldn't read, but didn't say anything to outright discourage him.

He picked up the pictures. After breakfast in Stockton that morning in July, he and his siblings spent the day together, remembering Margaret's photo request far too late. Instead, they'd taken pictures of each other. Lydia had sent two: one of her on Don's back, piggyback style, and one of Don and Charlie, Don's arm casually hooked around his brother's neck. They were all grinning like fools and Don was a bit taken aback at how much the snapshots made him miss them both.

He leaned his head back, letting the fall sun play over his face. He had been at Quantico for two weeks and the training so far had been more grueling than he'd expected. He didn't have trouble with the physical aspect but he found he had to discipline himself to get back into the swing of taking notes and studying. The compound had dorms, a dining hall, a library, the classroom building, the forensics building along with an auditorium, chapel, gym and outdoor fitness complex, where he sat now.

There was also a firing range. Don was a natural; he shot so well his instructor asked if he'd hunted as a child. He didn't believe the only experience Don had with guns was shooting the cap pistol his uncle Tommy had given him.

He opened a package of gum and popped a stick into his mouth. He wondered if Charlie had received a similar package containing chalk.

A shadow fell over him. "Girl back home?" a voice asked.

Don looked up. A woman was standing there, with brown hair and soft brown eyes, a towel slung around her neck. She'd obviously been running the track. Don was so lost in his reverie he hadn't noticed.

"Nah," he answered. Not just a woman, but a very pretty woman. "Little sister."

"I have one of those," she said, sitting beside him. "Pain in the ass, drives me crazy, but strangely, I really miss her."

"Yeah, that's about the size of it." Don recognized her from his classes and he struggled to remember her name. Tammy? No. Tori?

She rescued him by smiling and extending her right hand. "Terry Lake," she said.

* * *

"England," Larry Fleinhardt said in a satisfied voice. "How I miss eventful London. And you will be able to visit the home of William Shakespeare. Stonehenge is a lovely day trip from London – and quite a remarkable sight."

"I haven't read much Shakespeare," Charlie replied absently.

"It is never too late to start," Larry said, a little reproachfully. "Numbers are not quite everything." As Charlie shot him a wry look, he continued, "Being well-versed in all disciplines is useful for critical thinking."

"Uh huh."

Larry watched as Charlie tossed a piece of paper at the wastebasket, mumbling "yes!" under his breath as it sailed in. "Charles. You are going to Oxford. Oxford! And yet, your excitement is not palpable.**" **

Charlie shrugged. "I've never been away from home before," he said finally. He tossed another ball into the wastebasket.

"Princeton was not away?"

"My mother was with me," Charlie reminded him.

"Oh, yes," Larry said. "Well, you were just a boy. Precocious, quixotic, but still a boy."

Another two points.

"You will like Oxford," Larry predicted. "There are some fascinating young minds there – people who will be your peers. I always liked London. And," he leaned forward and tapped Charlie's knee, "you will find some lovely young ladies on campus."

Charlie reddened and began making a pile of paper balls. He had little experience in the ways of the opposite sex. The closest he'd come was after he'd published his first paper in the American Journal of Mathematics -- he'd received a provocative note and an invitation to spend the weekend at a bed and breakfast in Santa Barbara. He'd been fourteen.

Margaret had called the female professor and broken the news. "I'm sure you didn't realize he's just a child," she said, while Charlie, mortified, listened from the next room.

Charlie was always tempted to try some sort of analysis to see how far behind he actually was but it would be hard to get the proper data. He could hardly go around to the freshmen calculus class and ask how old everyone had been when they lost their virginity. He wondered how old Don and Lydia had been and his face grew even redder. That was something it was probably better not to contemplate.

"Charles?"

Charlie handed Larry a handful of paper. "Here," he said, deftly changing the subject. "One on one. I'll spot you ten points."

Larry obligingly tossed a ball towards the rubbish. It missed by four feet. "I fear those ten points will not last long," he sighed.

"Try again. You'll get closer." As Larry looked unconvinced, Charlie explained, "Regression to the mean. Trust me."

The next ball only missed by two feet.

"See?" Charlie said excitedly. "Numbers never lie."

* * *

Lydia splashed her face, trying to being as quiet as possible. She cupped water in her hand and used it to swallow four Tylenol to quiet the pounding in her head and the dull ache in her neck from sleeping at an odd angle in a strange bed.

She looked out the grimy window, hoping the street looked a little familiar. The last thing she really remembered was playing Chopin after hours at the bar for some moron who said he'd never heard of him. Said moron was now beyond the bathroom door, snoring loudly. Lydia tried to think. Colin? No. But something vaguely Irish. Brandon?

She pulled on her clothes. It didn't matter. It only mattered that she figure out where she was and get back to Ellen's. Today was Thursday, right? She had to shower. She had an audition at noon for an actual band, not a tribute band, or a garage band, a real honest-to-goodness-with-a-record-contract band. If she got it, she swore she'd never get drunk again.

* * *

Terry glanced sideways at Don and suddenly sprinted the last ten yards, leaving him behind her. He swore softly and dashed after her but her head start was just enough that she crossed the finish line a foot ahead of him.

She bent, panting hard. Steam billowed out of her mouth. "Be careful," she said when she could speak. "If a perp does that to you, you're screwed."

Don tackled her, tumbling her over on the grass and straddling her. "That's what this move is for," he said, kissing her.

She smiled up at him. "You're going to kiss the perp? What if he's a big hairy ugly guy?"

"That'll surprise him, wouldn't you think?"

Terry laughed. She was a small woman, and though she had good reflexes and instincts, and was already showing great skill as a profiler, she was a bit worried about passing the physical portion of the FBI tests. Don had offered to help and they'd been running and lifting weights together for almost three weeks. The kissing had started the week before when they discovered that sex was a great tension reliever for the pressures of the Academy.

She pushed at Don's chest and he rolled sideways to lie beside her. "So, do you have plans tonight?" she asked.

"Yup," Don answered. He was flattered that Terry looked disappointed. "Why don't you come along? We'll make it a date."

"A real date?" she asked skeptically.

"A real date," Don promised.

As it turned out, Terry and Don each had a different idea of what "a real date" was. He showed up in Terry's room with an overflowing basket of laundry and invited her to find her own. A half hour later, they were sitting at the Soap Bubble with a pizza as their whites got whiter.

"Eppes," Terry said, "you know this is pathetic, right?"

"Multi-tasking," Don corrected her. "We're killing two birds with one stone."

"This is not a date," Terry objected.

"Hell, yes, it is. We've got dinner. We've got entertainment." He gestured at the old TV mounted in the corner, showing a staticy rerun of "Taxi." "And at the end of the night, we'll have clean underwear. What could be better?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. He fed her a bite of pizza and leaned in to kiss the sauce from the corner of her mouth. She smiled in spite of herself. "I'm trying to figure out what makes you tick," she said softly.

"There ain't much there," he teased lightly. "A head full of FBI protocols and some baseball stats. That's about it."

"I don't believe that for a minute."

"Guys are shallow, right? That's what you all tell us."

"And yet, we let you take us to Laundromats and tempt us with pizza and potentially have your way with us," Terry teased.

Don smiled. "Clean sheets," he whispered. "I'm going to bribe you with clean sheets."

_TBC_


	13. Chapter Eleven

_Thanks again to Charmed Mummy for the beta, to Beth Pryor for her knowledge of England and to both for their amazing memory of canon. My notions of how Fugitive Recovery might work are from my own imagination. We know from canon that Charlie lived with Susan for "about two years when he was 21," so I have them moving in together shortly before Charlie's 21st birthday. This scene is rated PG-13, for minor frontal nudity. Lucky Susan. _

* * *

**Chapter 11**

**February 1995**

When Don graduated from Quantico, Margaret and Alan watched proudly. Both of them, Margaret in particular, had reservations about their eldest's career choice, but they voiced their doubts and fears only to one another.

They had made the trip to Virginia alone. Charlie was finishing up his work at CalSci and preparing for his trip abroad. Margaret and Alan were not pleased he'd decided to stay home, but Charlie was no longer a child, and he ignored their pointed suggestions that he come along. By the time Lydia picked up the message telling her when the date was, she was in the middle of a bar tour in Canada. She was playing keyboards and singing backup in a band called Red Bow. They were going nowhere fast, but during her infrequent calls home, she only told her parents she was happily following her dream.

Don assured his parents and his siblings that he understood, and he truly did. But it didn't mean he wasn't disappointed. He had no idea when he'd see his family next.

Don was headed to D.C. to be assigned a partner in the Fugitive Recovery unit and would spend at least the next two years chasing the bad guys wherever the trail led him. He'd be completely undercover, without a home base and pretty much inaccessible except for the direst of emergencies. After the commencement ceremony, he'd hugged both his parents warmly, more because they hadn't freaked out when he told them his assignment than for anything else.

Following dinner with their respective families, Don and Terry met at the track. It was a chilly night; Terry tucked her hand into the crook of Don's arm and they walked slowly around the oval.

"Am I allowed to say I'm going to miss you?" Terry asked suddenly.

"Yeah, sure. Me, too." Don glanced sideways at her. "You goin' to go all girly on me, Lake?" There was a teasing note in his voice, mostly to cover how much emotion was suddenly rising in him. The next morning, Terry was flying west; she'd posted to Arizona. Don didn't know when he'd see her again either.

"Not likely," she scoffed. "Remember, I kicked your ass on the obstacle course."

"By four seconds."

"Still." She paused. "Thanks. For training with me. For … just thanks."

"You're welcome."

They had walked almost another whole rotation before Terry said quietly, "I know it was just sex, but it wasn't just sex. We're friends. I feel like we are, anyway."

"Of course we are," Don assured her. "Always."

"It might have been more," she said thoughtfully. "Though I'm not sure how we'd manage that now."

Don stopped and pulled her to face him. He looked at her intently, so keenly that after a moment Terry had to look away. Then he dipped his head and kissed her so hard her knees went weak. Without another word, he led her off the track and inside to his room.

They parted the next morning and though they tried to keep in sporadic touch – Don even sent a gift when he heard she got married – they didn't see one another again until they both ended up in Los Angeles in 2003.

**

* * *

**

**Summer 1996**

Larry was right about most things.

He was right about Oxford, though it wasn't as near London as he'd led Charlie to believe. He was right about Stonehenge. It was amazing. Charlie had stayed for hours, marveling at the perfect formations of the boulders. Larry had even been right about Shakespeare, though Charlie was finding "Titus Andronicus" a little too violent for his taste. He loved the sonnets, though – and he loved reading them to Susan and listening to her read them to him in her sexy British accent.

Charlie rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at his girlfriend. Sometimes, it seemed the word didn't fit – she was, after all, almost eight years older than he. Her blonde hair was tousled and fell over her face. He reached out a gentle finger and pushed the strands away.

Susan Berry was a professor at Cambridge, a neuroscientist exploring the pleasure center of the brain. Her ideas were provocative, graceful and fascinating, and Charlie had listened to her guest lecture at Oxford with a growing sense of interest, sensing that somehow, someday, her research might have bearing on his own work. He'd been stunned when she'd approached him after the lecture – she knew who he was and wanted to talk to him about the Eppes Convergence.

"Math's not my specialty, but I've always fancied it," she said. "It's … sexy, somehow."

By the end of dinner, Charlie was head over heels. Two months later, they were spending all their free time together, alternating between her flat in Bishop's Stortford and his cramped room in Clarendon Centre, near the Oxford campus. It was two hours between them. Charlie had painstakingly mapped out the shortest routes, but he didn't dwell on it. Every minute of the trip was worth it. Susan was beautiful and brilliant – and for some reason he had yet to quantify – seemed to love him.

She opened her eyes to find him gazing at her. "Hey," he whispered.

"Hey yourself." She reached up a hand to stroke his cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

He smiled. "Perfect."

Susan stretched luxuriously. The sheet fell away from her torso, and Charlie leaned over to kiss her lips, then her neck, then her breast. She wound her hand through his curly hair and practically purred in pleasure. "Well, that's quite a way to wake up."

"Mmm hmm," Charlie said, moving the sheet to work his kisses lower. Susan put her hand under his chin and pulled him back up, kissing him softly.

"I hate to do this," she murmured, "but what time is it?"

"Almost seven."

Susan groaned. She gently moved Charlie's hand, which had found its way back to her breast, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I'm sorry, love. I've a lecture at ten."

Charlie sighed and fell back on the pillow. Susan stood and pulled on her robe. "Charlie, I've been thinking. Maybe we could get a place more centrally located."

"What, like, together?" Charlie squeaked.

The surprise in his voice made Susan laugh. "Yes, silly, together. What do you think we've been doing?"

Charlie blushed.

"We spend more time on the motorway than anywhere else," Susan continued. "Maybe we could find a flat halfway between. It wouldn't be close for either of us, but we wouldn't have to dash off so early, either."

"And it would be our place," Charlie said.

"Yes, love." Susan knelt on the bed and kissed him. "We'd have more time for our work – and we'd have more time for this. What do you think?"

"I think it's a brilliant idea," Charlie said, pulling her into his lap. "I also think you're going to be late for your lecture."

Surprisingly, Susan didn't seem to mind.

* * *

**Fall 1996**

Alan stood in the kitchen, one disbelieving hand clutching the phone. Disconnected. How the hell could it be disconnected?

In the middle of the fridge, where he and Margaret used to hang the children's art projects and report cards, was a piece of paper with three numbers on it: one for Charlie in England, a cell phone for Lydia, and a listing for Don that they would never use.

Alan picked up a pen and angrily scribbled over Charlie's number. The only thing to do, he supposed, was call Oxford during their business hours and see if someone could track Charlie down. _Probably forgot to pay the bill_, Alan thought ungraciously. _The boy's a genius and he can't balance a checkbook or keep track of his keys._

He hadn't spoken to his daughter in weeks. Lydia hardly ever answered her phone and it took her days to return messages. She was on the road so much Alan had lost track of her alleged address. When they did talk Lydia was invariably cheery, but there was always some reason that her latest gig wouldn't take her anywhere near Pasadena.

And Don. Don had provided his cell phone number at Alan's insistence, but he'd been very clear that if there was some kind of emergency, his parents should call the FBI field office in L.A. and let them track him down.

"I can't risk blowing a stakeout because you want to say hello, Dad, no offense," he'd said. "I promise I'll check in as often as I can." Alan said he understood – but he was offended, and "often" had turned out to be a few times a year.

He walked through the swinging door. He could see his children in his mind's eye, pounding down the stairs as Margaret scolded, "Elephants! Walk slowly!" One year for Mother's Day, they'd pitched in for a ceramic pachyderm. "His name is Do-Ly-Lie," Lydia told her solemnly, and Margaret had laughed until she cried.

There were so many memories. Donny's baseball games. Lydia's piano recitals. Margaret out in the garage, reading legal briefs on the old couch while Charlie scribbled on the blackboard. On Sunday mornings when they were young, Charlie still in diapers, the three of them would tumble into bed with their parents. Margaret would bring up a pot of coffee and bagels and they'd lounge, leafing through the paper, reading the comics to the kids. There were stormy nights when first Charlie, then Lydia, then Don would find their way into their room and make a nest on the floor. A few times, when they were a little older, Alan would open Don's door to wake him for school and find Charlie curled up next to him, with Lydia wrapped in a quilt at the foot of the bed, all of them sound asleep. He never knew if one of them had had a bad dream or if they'd been up late talking, but he always took a minute before waking them, savoring how peaceful and content they looked.

Maybe they hadn't done the right thing. Maybe focusing so completely on Charlie's education had slighted Don and Lydia – and perhaps even Charlie himself, as they had not considered he was academically advanced but perhaps socially behind. A thousand regrets spun through Alan's head, flickering like stills in an old movie: rebuking Don and Lydia to be quiet, keeping Charlie at the high school though he clearly was lonely there, allowing the family to be separated for three years. They were three years Lydia and Don had needed their mother and three years he had needed his wife and youngest son. They were years they would never get back.

Margaret came up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked gently.

Alan faced her, tears standing in his eyes. "Maggie," he said hoarsely. "How did it happen that we don't know where any of our children are?"

_TBC_


	14. Chapter Twelve

_Disclaimers and thanks continue, and again, the particulars of Fugitive Recovery come from my own imagination. Oh, and I also mean no disrespect to Taco Bell. :-)_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**October 1996**

"Enchiladas," Billy Cooper said. "Real enchiladas, not that shit they sell at Taco Bell."

"Steak. Or a burger," Don responded. "Hell, I'd settle for meatloaf. Any kind of red meat."

They had been camped at the cemetery in Oakland for a week. Don and Coop had been partners with Fugitive Recovery for a year and had earned a first-rate reputation for their thorough approach to man hunting. They hunkered down in an area motel, gathered so much information on their escapee they knew him better than he knew himself, and then laid in wait.

They were sure this fugitive, Aaron Spencer, would show up at his wife's grave eventually. After days of using the restroom of a nearby gas station for their hygiene needs and the local 7-11 as a restaurant, they had started to play "what's the first thing I'm going to eat when the bust is done."

"Check it out." Billy pointed to their left, a half dozen stones away from the one they were watching. "There's Mr. Tallachi."

The elderly man had been there every single day in the early evening. He set up a lawn chair and drank from a travel mug and read until he was too dark for him to see the page. After the third day, Don's curiosity had gotten the better of him and he'd gone over to read the stone. _Rose Angela Tallachi, born 1911, died 1993, beloved wife and mother_. Don imagined Mr. Tallachi in that same spot every day for the last three years and he could not fathom that such great love might someday happen to him.

He popped another piece of Juicy Fruit in his mouth. Being on a perpetual stakeout did nothing to improve his chances of finding love, great or otherwise. There was a woman from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Nikki Davis, whom he'd met during a week-long training back at Quantico. They tried to date when neither of them was undercover. Nikki was currently on an assignment in Michigan. Maintaining a long-distance relationship was difficult under any circumstances, and Don feared the pressures of the job would end it before either he or Nikki had a chance to decide what they might mean to one another.

The last time he'd talked to his parents, they'd said Charlie was living with a girl near London. Margaret told him Charlie was so enamored he hadn't thought to tell anyone he'd moved, including his parents. "You can imagine, Dad was not amused," Margaret said. "Our own absent-minded professor." Don barely heard her. His mind was still trying to wrap itself around the fact that Charlie was living with a girl.

He sighed. He was going to end up married to the damn job.

"Finally," Coop said quietly. He raised a set of field glasses and looked across the cemetery. After a moment, he handed them to Don. "There he is. I'll circle around."

"I'll come up from behind," Don answered, confirming that the approaching figure was their guy. "I want to make sure I'm between him and Mr. Tallachi."

Coop disappeared. Don waited a few moments and got out of the car. He placed one hand on his gun and walked quietly around the row of headstones. Spencer approached his wife's grave and knelt, placing a dozen roses tenderly at its base.

"Federal Agent!" Coop hollered. "Don't move!"

Spencer leaped to his feet. He spun around and saw Don, then pulled a gun.

Don drew his own gun and took off at a run, hollering at Mr. Tallachi to get down. He could hear Coop yelling at Spencer to drop his weapon. Spencer squeezed off a shot in Coop's direction and Coop shouted in surprise. Don halted and aimed at Spencer even as he was warning him to drop his weapon.

Spencer started to turn, the gun leveled in front of him. Don fired.

He was surprised at how quickly the man went down and how the earth around him darkened immediately. Coop appeared and kicked Spencer's weapon out of reach and knelt.

"You all right?" Don asked, jogging over to him.

"He missed," Coop said shortly. He pressed his fingers to Spencer's neck. "You didn't, though. He's dead. Good shot."

Don stared at him a moment, then staggered over to Mrs. Spencer's stone and threw up on her roses.

* * *

Five hours later, Don was lying on his rented motel bed staring at the ceiling. Coop had gone in search of tequila, a woman and the perfect enchilada, in that order, leaving the car keys with Don because he said he intended to get too drunk to walk, never mind drive. In the morning, they'd go into the San Francisco office and file their report, then take a few days off before moving on to the next case.

Don had showered the week's grime off but found he lacked the energy to do much of anything else. He closed his eyes and saw Spencer and the look of bewildered realization just before he fell.

He sat up with a grunt. Apparently sleep was out of the question. He picked up his cell phone, hesitated a brief moment, then scrolled through the numbers.

"Hello!" Lydia shouted. Music pounded in the background and Don held the phone away from his ear. "Hold on, I can't hear you! Wait, don't hang up!"

Don could hear movement and voices and the music gradually faded. There was the distinct sound of a door closing and his sister said, "I'm sorry. Hello?"

"Hi."

"Donny!" she shrieked, and he had to hold the phone away from his ear for a second time. "God! Hi! How are you? You have perfect timing – I can actually talk for a minute. Are you between things?"

"Yeah, between things," he answered noncommittally, ignoring the question about how he was. "We finished one today."

"Did you catch the bad guy?"

"I shot the bad guy," Don blurted. "He shot at Billy. He died."

Lydia gasped. "Your partner died?"

"No. The perp. I kil … I shot him, and he died."

Her breath caught. "Hold on for me, okay? Don't hang up." Her voice was muffled as she covered the phone and shouted something. When she returned, her tone was soft and gentle. "Okay. Where are you?"

"We were in a cemetery, how's that for irony?" Don said, surprised that his voice was a little shaky. "Never mind. How are you? I haven't talked to you in – shit, I don't even know."

Lydia was pacing, but when she spoke none of her agitation came through in her voice. "I'm fine. I don't know when we last talked either – that's not good, huh? But things are going okay. Where are you?"

This time, lulled by her babbling, Don answered. "Oakland. Where are you? "

"Just over the bridge in San Francisco. Come see me."

Don didn't reply. He leaned back on the bed, taking comfort in his sister's voice.

"Come on, come see me," she wheedled. "Do you have a car?"

He still didn't answer.

"It's a bar at the corner of Broadway and Montgomery – it's not far off the freeway," she went on, a little desperately. "There's a big neon sign – The View, it's called. The guy at the door is Joe, I'll tell him to let you in." When her brother still didn't respond, she pleaded, "Please, Donny. Please. You're scaring me."

"I'm all right," he started to say, then realized it was pointless to lie. "Okay."

"Will you find it all right?" she asked anxiously.

Don snorted and Lydia took comfort in his annoyance. "I find fugitives. I can find a bar."

* * *

Don heard his sister before he saw her, her voice as clear and lovely as he recalled, singing a song he didn't recognize. Lydia was sitting at a piano on a small stage wearing a sequined halter top and a miniskirt. Her hair was shorter than he remembered. A brandy glass sat on the piano's top, full of bills.

He sat at the bar and ordered a beer, downed half of it with one swallow, and ordered another one. As the song ended, Lydia trilled the first two bars of Johnny Rivers' "Secret Agent Man" and he knew she'd seen him.

She finished her set twenty minutes later and came toward him. By then, with the lack of sleep and real food over the last week, Don was starting to feel the affect of his second beer. He stood to meet her, saying hesitantly, "Hey, Lyddie – hi."

She didn't say a word. She just wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him hard. Don hugged her back. She smelled like smoke and Chantilly. "I've got one more set," she murmured. "You'll wait, right?"

Don nodded. Lydia turned to the bartender, who handed her a glass of white wine without having to ask. "Beth, this is my brother. Take care of him, all right?"

Beth did just that. It was probably her doing that Don was not completely plastered when Lydia returned more than an hour later. He was warm, relaxed, a little sentimental and a little drunk.

"Come stay with me," Lydia said, shoving her tips in her purse. "You can't drive."

"I probably can't," Don agreed, and he allowed her to lead him to her car, an old beat-up Honda. He fumbled his seatbelt together. "You're working here? What happened to Dead Crow?"

Lydia chortled. "Red Bow," she corrected. "We had a difference of opinion. So I came back here, crashed with Ellen again, and found the job and the place. It's not so bad. It's not quite a dive and they comp my drinks. The tips are good, especially if I let the old drunk men look down my shirt. I'm saving money for studio time."

"I talked to Mom and Dad about a month ago," Don said. "They didn't mention it."

"I didn't tell them."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "No need to give them the chance to rub it in, you know? Besides, they'd want to visit, and when you see my apartment, you'll understand why it's better if they don't." As Don opened his mouth to protest, she said, "Did they tell you Charlie shacked up with some professor from Cambridge?"

"She's a professor?"

"She's almost thirty."

Don grinned. "Good for him. At least one of us has a love life." He looked sideways at his sister. "How about you?"

She turned left into the parking lot of a large concrete building. "I have bad luck with boys," she said lightly. "The last guy? We dated a couple of months and I mentioned you work for the FBI. You know, it came up in conversation. Two days later, he was gone. Left his job, his place, just vanished. A month after that, the cops came to see me, wanting to know if I knew where he was. Turns out he's wanted for tax evasion. His name's Warren Raines. Maybe you'll go hunting for him someday." She parked and turned off the motor. "Here we are."

Lydia's apartment was on the third floor, small, cramped and full of hand-me-down furniture. She had old flowered sheets on her windows instead of curtains. The coffee table was old and scarred; Don remembered it from his childhood. Her old Casio keyboard sat on top of it. He looked at the brass lamp and the braided rug and realized Lydia must have raided their parents' basement. He was even sure he recognized the sheets. It reminded him so much of home he sank onto the couch with a small groan, suddenly overwhelmed.

"Donny?" Lydia sat next to him. "Want to tell me about what happened today?"

"No."

"If he shot at Billy, you did the right thing," she said. "You know that, right?"

Don thought about the way Spencer had instantly dropped. He could see the blood on Billy's fingers after he'd checked for a pulse and he wondered if Spencer had a little sister. Bile rose in his throat. "I said I don't want to talk about it." He intended to snap at her, but what came out was a hoarse whisper.

He tried to clear his throat. "Will you play for me?" He leaned back and closed his eyes. Lydia could tell by the muscles twitching in his clenched jaw that he was barely in control. "Please. Just play."

"You don't have to be so brave all the time, you know," she said, but she obediently pulled the keyboard onto her lap and switched it on. "It's just me."

She pretended not to notice the lone tear that streaked his cheek as she played Carole King and Joshua Kadison songs for him until he fell asleep.

* * *

Don woke up to the smell of bacon and stretched. Lydia had taken his shoes off, but he was still fully dressed and fairly stiff from sleeping on her uncomfortable couch. He rose and went to lean in the kitchen doorway. Lydia was cooking, wearing her nightclothes: socks and a baseball shirt that read "Eppes 27" on the back. 

"That's mine," Don said.

"You left it at Mom and Dad's," she answered. "Finders keepers. There's coffee."

He poured himself a cup and peeked over her shoulder. She was making waffles.

"That waffle iron looks like it cost more than your car," Don said, taking a much-needed swallow of caffeine. "And yet, you have old sheets on your windows."

She grinned at him over her shoulder. "Priorities. Can you eat, or did you drink too much beer last night?"

"I'm starving. Do you always make breakfast like this?" He reached over and swiped a piece of bacon off the plate in front of her.

"Yeah, most of the time it's the only real meal I eat, so I make it worth my while."

Twenty minutes later, Don was finishing his second waffle when his phone rang.

"Eppes."

"Debriefing's in an hour," Coop said. "There was no answer in your room and I don't see the rental. Please tell me you're having breakfast with a pretty girl."

Don glanced at Lydia and smiled. "Yes, I am, but it's nothing like you think. I'm already in San Francisco. I'll meet you over there."

"Good deal. They're talking about Minnesota next. We don't catch this guy fast, we'll have to buy snowshoes."

Don laughed and hung up. "Can you get me back to my car?" he asked. "I have a meeting in an hour."

Lydia threw on an old pair of jeans and stuffed her hair under a baseball hat for the short ride back to The View. She surprised Don by getting out of the car when he did and hugging and kissing him fiercely.

"Be careful, all right?" she said. "If people can shoot at Billy, they can shoot at you, too, and I kind of like having a big brother. So please learn to duck."

"I know how to duck," he assured her, hugging her back. "Thanks for last night."

"You're welcome." As he got into his car, she shouted after him, "I love you! Call me before it's another year!"

Don waved in acknowledgement as he put the car in gear. She watched him drive off and blew him a kiss as he took the corner and left her sight. He was touched by her concern. He wondered if he should be worried about her as well.

_TBC_


	15. Chapter Thirteen

_All disclaimers and thank yous continue. And I'm not getting my alerts – are you guys? _

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**April 1998**

Don waited until the second round of beer came before he told his partner he was getting out of Fugitive Recovery.

"Out," Coop said, a little flatly. "Because of this case?"

Their last fugitives had been a husband-and-wife team playing Bonnie and Clyde, wanted for a spree of bank robberies across the eastern seaboard. They cornered them at a hotel in Boston but when they attempted to make their arrest, the husband came out shooting. Coop shot back, killing him in front of the couple's two children.

Don shook his head. "No, but I can't say the last couple of days have done anything to convince to me stay."

"You're good at this, Eppes," Coop said quietly.

"It's been three years," Don said. "It's a long time. Time to do something else."

Coop downed the rest of his beer and signaled for another. "You put in for a transfer yet?"

"Yeah. I didn't say anything because I didn't know if the AD would approve it."

"And he did," Coop said evenly.

"They're sending me to Quantico. To re-acclimate me to society." Don tried to laugh, but there was something about the assignment that was unsettling, as if the life he'd led for the FBI had somehow robbed him of his ability to act like a normal human being.

Maybe it had. Nothing about his life was normal. He didn't even have a home base. He moved around so much he hadn't bothered to get an apartment, staying instead in motels during the few days between assignments. He had a duffel bag he carried and a few boxes of memories in his parents' house, but no place to really call his own.

He jerked his head up as he realized Coop was talking to him. "What?"

"I said what the hell are you going to do at Quantico?"

"New agent training," Don answered. He snickered. "I'm going to be a teacher. My brother teaches, did I ever tell you that? He's a professor of applied mathematics."

Coop snorted. Don grinned. Going back to Virginia would give him a chance to spend actual time with his family, even though he'd be across the country. He hadn't had a holiday with them in eighteen months. Hell, he hadn't even seen any of them for more than a year, and that had only been a quick lunch with Alan and Margaret as he went from one mission to the next. His mind was so mottled with man hunting it always took him a minute to remember that Charlie was still in England and Lydia had moved to New York. He hadn't seen his sister since that night in her San Francisco apartment and he hadn't seen or spoken to Charlie since a few months before that.

How had that happened? He thought of his mother asking quietly, "Donny, when will we see you again?" and the look of resigned disappointment when he had to tell her he had no idea.

"You in charge of the NATS," Coop said. "God help us all." He shifted in his chair. "Don't you think you'll miss it?"

"Maybe. I don't know." Don picked at the label on his beer bottle. "I just need more of a life than this."

"Well then." Coop toasted him without animosity. "Better go find it."

* * *

**May 1998**

Charlie climbed the short flight of steps to his flat. He'd finished his Ph.D. work a few months before and had accepted Cambridge's offer to teach a spring class when the regular professor fell ill. He and Susan had moved to a place close to the university, putting their days of hour-long commutes behind them.

Teaching was challenging and invigorating, but it was exhausting. He vacillated between being impressed with his students and worried that by the end of the semester, their research would overtake his own.

He unlocked the door, calling, "Hello? Suze, I'm home!"

She came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. "Who's Kitty?"

Charlie shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and looked at her quizzically. "What? Who?"

"She left a message," Susan said. "She sounded like she was pissed. I saved it."

_Pissed? _It took Charlie a moment to translate – drunk, not angry. He tried to ascertain if Susan was angry. She didn't look angry – she looked a little confused. Concerned. Almost like she wanted to be angry but it was too much effort to get there.

"I don't know any Kitty," he assured her.

She shrugged. "She knows you. Loves and misses you, she says."

Charlie hit the button on the answering machine and as soon as the message began to play, he shook his head and shut it off without listening to the rest of it. "Not Kitty. Lyddie." When Susan still looked a little blank, Charlie clarified, "Lydia. My sister?"

Susan flushed. "Oh," she stammered. "Right. Yes, well, sorry."

She turned to go back to the kitchen when Charlie stopped her by asking, "Did you really think I was cheating on you?"

She was quiet for a long moment. Charlie had looked away, thinking she wasn't going to answer, when she finally murmured as she left, "I think the fact it crossed my mind tells us something."

Charlie's throat ached. In most ways, he was happy. He belonged in academia. He loved Susan. But he missed California and he missed his family, especially his parents. Susan's home was England. Charlie wanted to go back to the States. There was no room for compromise, and both of them were fighting the feeling that it was only a matter of time before they parted.

He hit the button on the machine, just to be doing something other than thinking about it.

"Charlie! It's Lyddie." Her voice was slurring. "It's very very late here so I thought it would be an okay time to call. But I don't know. Okay. I just called to say hi. I miss you. Okay. That's all. I love you. I really do. You should come visit me. Okay. Bye."

He hadn't heard from Lydia in more than six months. Somehow, her message didn't make him feel any better.

It bothered him that Susan barely remembered Lydia's name. He could feel the rift between himself and his girlfriend and he hated that there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it. He couldn't move an ocean. Whenever they tried to talk about where they should settle, they fought.

But maybe, he realized suddenly, that was because they were talking about where to live, not where to build their life. And maybe there was something he could do about that.

Charlie crossed to the kitchen and watched Susan for a minute. She had her back to him as she stood at the counter, chopping vegetables for a salad.

He cleared his throat and plunged. "Susan. Do you think we should get married?"

She turned to him and he saw she was crying. "No, love," she said gently, and Charlie felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and out of his world.

* * *

**June 1998**

Lydia threw open the door of the building and took the stairs two at a time. She burst into the reception area of the recording studio, breathless, and announced, "Hi, I'm Lydia Eppes, I booked some time – I'm a little late --"

The receptionist cut her off, looking pointedly at the clock. "You're an hour and a half late. Someone else is in there."

"I know, I'm sorry, I'll wait." Lydia slid her bag off her shoulder.

"I suppose you can wait if you want, but we're booked all day."

_Damn it. Damn that party. Damn that guy with the goatee. _"Can I reschedule?"

"Sure." The woman flipped through a book and said, "First thing I have is three weeks from Thursday."

"Three weeks?" Lydia said faintly.

"And we'll need the three hundred dollar fee in advance."

"The fee?" she stammered. "I already paid – can't you take that money for the new appointment?"

The woman shook her head. "You don't show, you lose your money. Didn't you read your contract?"

Lydia rubbed her temples. She still had a headache. She couldn't think. She'd never have three hundred dollars in three weeks. It had taken her forever to save that to begin with. The reason she'd picked this place was because it was a flat fee, not an hourly rate – for her money, she'd walk out of here with a three-song demo tape.

"You want to book that time or not?"

"Not," Lydia whispered, leaving the office.

She'd left San Francisco the same way she'd come – all her belongings in Don's old Rangers bag, on board a Greyhound bus. She kept thinking there must be a song in there somewhere. She'd thought New York would be exciting and maybe there'd be more opportunities, but it wasn't much different. She was still broke, renting a room in a questionable neighborhood and getting a little more anxious every day.

Lydia knew if she called her parents, they'd fly her home. But she didn't want to ask. She wanted to go back at least with a steady gig, if not a record contract. When Alan and Margaret called her, she rarely returned the message, afraid they'd hear the desperation in her voice.

She didn't know how long she walked before she wandered into a bar in Times Square. It was a little after four o'clock – happy hour, right?

She wondered if they had a piano. She wondered if she could play a job for a night or two. She still had her Casio – would it be worth it to play on a corner, or in a subway?

She dug in her pockets, looking for money for just one glass of wine. She couldn't believe she was thinking such things.

A man sat on the stool next to her. "What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?" he asked.

"You did not say that," Lydia answered, amused. "That's a really bad line. Does it ever actually work for you?"

He shrugged, appearing completely unoffended. "Sometimes. When I buy them a drink."

Lydia didn't hesitate. "So buy me a drink and we'll see if it works."

* * *

**July 1998**

Alan pulled off his tie as he came through the front door. He stood still for a moment, letting the cold of the air conditioner wash over him. He was hot and irritated and … and something smelled incredible.

He dropped his briefcase. "Maggie?"

"Good, you're home!" she called from the kitchen. "Wash up and sit down, it's ready."

Alan obeyed. "What is all this?"

"What do you mean?" Margaret asked innocently, setting a plate in front of him. "I can't make dinner for my husband?"

Roasted duck. New potatoes. Fresh asparagus. Alan ran through the mental calendar in his head. Not her birthday. Not their anniversary. He raised his eyebrows and she smiled sweetly, sitting next to him and pouring them both a glass of wine.

Alan picked up his fork. A moment later, he realized it had been resting not on a napkin but an envelope. "What's this?"

"It's our vacation."

"It's what?" Alan pulled out a sheet of paper. It was an itinerary, outlining a trip that left Los Angeles in three days' time. He and Margaret were flying to Virginia for four days, taking a train up to New York City for a long weekend after that and then going on to London, where they'd spend a week before returning to California.

Don, then Lydia, then Charlie. They were going to their children in the order in which they'd come to them.

"Mohammed won't come to the mountain, so I figured we'd go to them," Margaret said. "We're leaving Saturday."

"We can't do that on three days' notice," Alan stammered.

"Oh, we certainly can," Margaret corrected him. "Do you know how many vacation weeks the city of Los Angeles owes you?"

"I --"

"Seven. Seven weeks. I called them. So we're going."

"I'd need to let them know --"

"They know now," Margaret said. "You've been there more than twenty years; they can give you this." She gestured to his plate. "Eat before it gets cold."

"What about your cases?" Alan objected weakly.

Margaret waved her hand dismissively and took a bite of her duck. "That's the great thing about hanging out your own shingle. You get to just put off your appointments and go. And we're going. The tickets are nonrefundable."

Alan started to laugh. "I've no choice here, do I?"

"No."

"Did you call the kids?"

"No," she said again. "We'll call them when we get there. It'll be an adventure."

Alan nodded thoughtfully. It was true. He hoped their children would want to spend time with them, and he tried hard to understand they were all adults and had lives of their own. None of them were in the same state – Charlie was in another country, for God's sake – and they were doing what they were supposed to do. Becoming the men and woman they were supposed to be, he used to tell them. He had to constantly remind himself that might not be the same as the men and woman he'd pictured them to be.

He missed them. He knew Margaret missed them too. So why not go?

He leaned over and kissed his wife, thanking her for once again knowing him better than he knew himself.

"One thing, sweetie," Margaret said. When Alan looked at her quizzically, she pointed her finger at him. "Not a word about weddings and grandchildren."

Alan tried to look offended but Margaret held fast. "I mean it, Alan. Do you remember when we first got married and Tommy and Becky kept asking when we were going to have kids? They weren't even being overbearing parents and it was too much. Not one word."

"Not one word," Alan agreed, wondering if he could somehow trick the kids into bringing it up themselves.

* * *

**The next two weeks**

The trip was both all they hoped and nothing like they planned. They were able to spend a couple of days with Don in Virginia – being an instructor; he had some sort of a regular schedule. They had dinner a couple of times and their last day there, Don took his father 80 miles into Baltimore to see the Orioles play the Red Sox. Margaret stayed happily at the hotel pool, reading a book that had nothing to do with case law. Don looked like he was getting settled, and Margaret was happy for that, though she still couldn't adjust to the fact her child carried a gun.

Alan and Margaret enjoyed New York. They saw two Broadway shows and spent an entire afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They called Lydia twice a day while they were there but she didn't call back, and so they missed her completely.

Then they flew to London. When they left the following week, Charlie, nursing a broken heart, went home with them. He was taking a teaching position at Cal Sci and assured them his moving home was just temporary. When the school year started, he was so busy with classes and research and advising and helping Larry with his research that he never got around to moving out.

A year later, when Margaret got sick for the first time, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

* * *

_A/N: NATS are New Agent Trainees, according to fbi-dot-gov. _


	16. Chapter Fourteen

_Disclaimers and thank yous continue, as usual. :-)_

* * *

**Chapter 14  
June 1999  
**

The lump was too small to be felt but it showed up at Margaret's annual mammogram.

"Thank God," was the first thing Alan said when she told him she needed a biopsy. "Thank God you go for those checks."

"Which reminds me, you need to have a colonoscopy."

"Lovely."

Margaret laughed. Alan loved his wife's laugh and he was suddenly seized with a fear that he might never hear it again.

Margaret could read her husband well – it had been that way since before they married. "Sweetheart, don't worry," she comforted him. "It could be nothing. And if it's something, it's just a little something and we're way ahead of catching it in time."

"I'm hoping for nothing," Alan said fervently, picking up her hand and kissing it.

"Me, too. I'll have the biopsy and we'll see what we need to do."

"I'll go with you."

"That would be wonderful." Margaret squeezed Alan's hands reassuringly. "Alan, I don't want to tell anyone. I don't want anyone to worry until we know whether or not there's something to worry about." She nodded meaningfully toward the garage where Charlie was lost in his latest equations. "I especially don't want to tell the kids."

"I don't want you to do this alone," Alan told her.

"What are you, chopped liver?" she teased, and he smiled in spite of himself.

The news the following week was mixed. Margaret's biopsy was positive, but the oncologist called the lump "pre-cancerous." He suggested a lumpectomy followed by six weeks of radiation. Margaret scheduled the procedure immediately.

"The sooner we do this, the sooner I'm back on my feet," she said firmly.

"I would do this for you if I could," Alan said quietly.

"I know you would, dear," she answered, snuggling against him. She felt blessed to be so secure in his love.

They had to tell Charlie. He lived in the same house, and even lost in the numbers, he was bound to notice his mother was in her nightgown for a week, moving slowly as her incision healed. Margaret waited until the night before her surgery to sit down with Alan and him in the living room and gently explain what had happened.

"Cancer?" he whispered. "Mom, no, did you get a second opinion? You're young, you don't smoke …"

"It's a little cancer," she said. "Stage 0, they call it. I'm going to be just fine, Charlie."

"Of course you are," he said faintly.

Margaret spoke slowly and carefully. "I want you to listen to me, sweets. My doctor said there is a 99 percent cure rate. The only reason he didn't tell me it's 100 percent is because he says he's not God. The radiation is a precaution, in case there are some microscopic cells that escaped the nodule. That will increase the chances as well. So really, statistically, the chances of this cancer killing me are slim to none. Do you understand?"

She knew the numbers would comfort her youngest and she was right. The color slowly crept back into Charlie's face.

"I want you to do me a favor," Margaret continued in the same soothing tone.

"Of course, Mama, anything you need." The childhood name slipped out against his will.

"I don't want to make a big deal about this, because it's not a big deal," Margaret said evenly. "I'd rather you didn't tell your brother and sister."

"You say that like we frequently speak," Charlie said. He was surprised by the sudden catch in his voice. He shook his head and cleared his throat, his voice becoming stronger. "You should at least tell Lyddie. So she knows to watch herself. I don't think Don and I would have as much to worry about." He put his hand on her arm and said earnestly, "But I could find out for you."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Do men get breast cancer?" Alan wondered aloud.

"Sometimes, yes, though it's predominantly a woman's disease," Charlie answered. "Breast cancer is actually more fatal in men than woman, probably because men don't think to get mammograms. And the mortality rate is higher than both prostate and testicular cancer."

His parents were speechless. Finally, Alan asked, "Charlie, how do you know that?"

He shrugged. "I remember things," he said dismissively. "I must have read it somewhere." He turned his attention back to his mother. "Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?"

"Dad's driving me. We'll be all set."

Charlie looked at Alan. "You'll call me right away, right?"

"Yes, of course."

Charlie took a deep breath. "Okay," he said, as if giving his mother permission. "All right. Everything's going to be fine."

* * *

The surgery went off without a hitch and a month later, Margaret began a six-week round of radiation treatments. Though the actual appointments lasted less than five minutes, they were five days a week at UCLA, in the opposite direction of Alan's office. Margaret insisted that Alan go to work as usual, so Charlie moved his first-hour class and took his mother every morning.

Charlie walked his mother into the building and waited until she was finished, even though Margaret was perfectly capable of handling it herself. He flirted with the ladies in the waiting room while Margaret "got zapped," as she put it, then took her out for coffee and a bagel. He made sure she was settled at home with everything she needed before heading over to Cal Sci. More often than not, he spent his free periods scribbling equations on his blackboard, calculating Margaret's health and age and type of cancer and prognosis, assuring himself over and over again that his mother would live.

The treatments left Margaret tired and looking as if she had a bad sunburn. She took to wearing Don's old tee shirts, the largest size they had in the house, with nothing underneath, because that was the only way she was remotely comfortable. Eventually, those tee shirts, a pair of shorts and a hat became her usual outfit. She was never entirely at ease venturing out of the house dressed like that, but she was also unwilling to stay inside for two months.

"I've never gone out without a bra in my life," she complained to Alan before her first trip to the bank.

"High time you started," he said fondly. "It's damn sexy."

She swatted at him and he reveled in her laugh.

The protocol went as expected. Aside from some radiation scarring and the small indentation in her breast Margaret found herself fingering each day in the shower, it could have been a bad dream. She never knew it gave her youngest child nightmares.

* * *

**October 1999**

Charlie stepped back from the blackboard, frowning slightly. He looked from the white numbers to the paper in his hand and squinted, trying to find the hole. It didn't quite work – the equation wasn't quite right, but he couldn't articulate why. Not yet.

"Excuse me. Dr. Eppes? Dr. Charles Eppes?"

Charlie jumped then scowled as the elusive solution fled. "Yes?" He turned and looked at the two men standing in his classroom, both of them wearing neat, dark suits, and he felt the strength going out of his knees.

"My name is Agent Ken Herbert," one said, flashing his ID. "I'm with the National Security Agency."

Charlie fought back an audible gasp. _Something horrible must have happened to Don._

He looked at the agents and thoughts slammed into his head with such force he winced. He wondered if they'd gone by the house first, how he'd ever tell Alan and Margaret that their oldest son was dead and how they might track down Lydia.

He willed his voice to not shake and asked, "How can I help you?" with as much dignity as he could manage through his terror.

Charlie had spoken to Don only once in the last few years, and that was during one of Don's infrequent calls home, when Charlie happened to answer the phone. Lydia left messages; sometimes he left messages back. He'd often thought he wanted to be in better touch with his siblings, but it was either a bad time to call or, more frequently, there was always something to _do _– an exam to write, papers to correct, research – something. Recently, it had seemed more important _not_ to call– he knew he'd never be able to hear Don's voice and not tell him their mother was ill.

He knew his hectic life was impacting their relationships but when he felt guilty about it, he reminded himself that they weren't checking in with him either. He always thought they'd have time to figure it out.

Charlie had so steeled himself for news of his brother's demise that when Herbert said, "We'd like to discuss the possibility of your consulting with us," he looked at them dumbly, momentarily unable to respond.

"Our assistant director, Robert Tompkins, is particularly interested in your work with cryptanalysis, and how it might apply to matters of national security," Herbert went on. "He'd like to arrange a time to speak with you."

Charlie was still speechless. Herbert, mistaking his silence for confusion, said quickly, "He'd like to see you as soon as possible. It would be a great opportunity for you to serve your cou --"

"My brother's all right?" Charlie interrupted. "He works for the FBI. I saw you, I thought …"

His voice trailed off. He heard a peculiar sound and saw that his hands were trembling, rattling the notes he still held in his hands. Whether he was shaking in relief or having a delayed reaction, he wasn't sure.

"I'm sorry we startled you," Herbert said quietly. "I knew you had a brother who worked for the Bureau – I should have realized our appearance might have been alarming. Agent Eppes is just fine, as far as we know."

Charlie nodded and set his notes carefully down on his desk. "I'd be happy to speak to Assistant Director Tompkins," he said. "When would he like to arrange that?"

* * *

The aftermath of the NSA's visit hit Charlie hard. When the agents left, he sat at his desk and scribbled quickly on a piece of paper, using all the variables he knew about his brother. As long as Don was teaching at Quantico, the chances of him dying in the field were less than five percent, and Charlie was so relieved he felt tears spring into his eyes.

He felt as if he'd narrowly escaped some terrible tragedy. The wheels in his head turned with the wheels on his bike as he made his way home.

_What if? What if something had happened to Don? What if Mom's cancer had been more serious? What if? _

He swung around, back through campus, and rode to the bookstore, where he purchased two note cards depicting the Math and Sciences building.

That night, he pulled them out of his backpack and penned identical messages: _You should come home for Thanksgiving. I'll kick your ass at Go Fish_ and signed his name. He addressed the first to Don in Virginia and the second to Lydia's last known address, noting with a pang there was a whole page in his parents' phone book for her. He walked down to the corner and mailed them immediately, before he could change his mind.

Don called two weeks later. Lydia's card came back around the same time, covered with bright yellow change-of-address stickers, the last of which read, "return to sender, no forwarding address."


	17. Chapter Fifteen

_I appreciate all your reviews. This is what I did today while stuck at home with my sick child -- he snoozed on the couch, I visited Don. Be aware there is some cursing in this chapter. _

* * *

**Chapter 15  
February 2000  
**

Don sighed and rubbed his temples, then turned back to the stack of papers on his desk. This was, by far, the worst part of his assignment – correcting. He had a pile of reports to read and comment on. The fact that they were practice documents for his new trainees, and not real cases, made the task more unappealing. At least real reports were a necessary evil.

Don didn't miss man hunting itself but he did miss being in the field. In six weeks, when this group of trainees finished, Don was heading to the Albuquerque field office to serve as the Special Agent in Charge. He wasn't quite thirty and was fairly young to be given such a high-status assignment. He was both honored and a little apprehensive about the challenge.

New Mexico was at least in the same section of the country as California, he thought, picking up the next report. After Charlie's unexpected note last fall, Don had flown home for the long Thanksgiving weekend. He played golf with his father and helped his mother chop apples for her pie, simple things that somehow made him feel peaceful. His last night there, he and Charlie, to their parents' amusement and their mutual surprise, had sat at the dining room table and played three rounds of Go Fish. Charlie slaughtered him. Don was convinced he cheated.

He smiled to himself. It had been a good visit, despite the way they all studiously avoided discussing Lydia, since they were individually and collectively worried about her. Alan had pulled him aside to ask if he'd heard from her and after Don said he had not, her name didn't come up again.

"Agent Eppes?" Liz Warner knocked on the door jamb.

Don motioned her to come in. The first week of training, he always wondered how some of the recruits had managed to pass the exam. But others, like Warner, he knew instantly would be fine agents. Under different circumstances, he'd have asked Liz out. As it was, he found he had to make a conscious effort not to notice how beautiful she was.

"Warner," he replied. He tapped the stack. "I haven't gotten to yours yet."

She smiled. "No, it's not that. There's a woman looking for you, down by the guardhouse at the south entrance. I happened to be down there and offered to come get you."

Don looked at her, puzzled. "A woman? What woman?"

"I don't know, sir. She was just insisting she needed to speak to you."

Don tossed his pencil on his desk and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, sir."

He figured it out halfway to the elevator. Who else dropped into his life unannounced like that? Who else had the right?

It had been a little more than three years since Don had seen Lydia. As he approached her, his face stayed neutral, though he couldn't believe how bad she looked. She had an old duffle bag slung over her shoulder – Don's old duffle, in fact – and in lieu of a coat, she was shivering in an oversized sweater. She turned to him with a tired, wan face. Her hair was drawn back in a messy, stringy ponytail and she tried to smile. "Donny," she breathed in relief.

Don flashed his badge at the security guard. "It's all right," he said, and the man retreated back into the guardhouse.

He put his arms around his little sister and uneasily realized he could feel the bones in her spine_. Is she sick? Eating disorder? Something more serious?_ Don had a vague notion she slept around … _AIDS? Jesus Christ. _

He hugged her carefully, suddenly afraid he might hurt her. She relaxed against him, one hand picking at his sleeve. He was strong and solid. She felt safe for the first time in a long time.

A hundred questions went through Don's head. The one that came out of his mouth was, "What happened to you?"

She shrugged against his chest and didn't answer. Don was seized with a sudden fury. He pushed her back, giving her shoulders a smart little shake. "Where have you been?" he hissed. "Your phone's disconnected, your address is no good – Jesus Christ, another month or so and I would have been figuring out a way to put a BOLO out on you. Mom and Dad are really worried – goddammit, Charlie and I are worried too, and you show up here --" His voice rose in spite of himself. "Lydia, what the hell is going on?"

Her mouth fell open. She wasn't sure how she'd expected him to react, but she hadn't thought he'd be so angry. "I – I've been around," she stammered. "I'm --"

"Around where? Doing what?" he interrupted bluntly. "Because you look like shit."

"I know." Her eyes filled with tears. "There's – I – things happened, Donny. I'm not sure where it all went to hell." She sniffled and tried to smile, reaching up to trail a finger quickly across his cheek. "You look great, though."

A pang of guilt rose up in Don's heart. He'd never been able to stand seeing either of his siblings cry – Margaret once told him when he was a pre-schooler, their tears had made him cry himself. It was the reason he'd gotten into so many fights on Charlie's behalf when they were children.

Don saw Liz coming down the path, presumably on her way to wherever she'd been when she'd run into Lydia in the first place. "Warner!" he called.

She jogged over immediately. "Sir?"

"Will you do me a favor?"

Liz nodded, shocked that the guy who barked at them on the challenge course and sighed in frustration in the classroom was actually _asking_ her to do something. He was still glaring, though she wasn't sure if it was directed at her. "Of course, Agent Eppes."

Don dug his key ring out of his pocket. "This is my sister Lydia," he said brusquely. "Lydia, Elizabeth Warner, she's one of our NATS."

Lydia looked blank. "Agent-in-training," Liz said quietly.

"Would you take her over to my apartment?" Don handed Liz the keys. "It's 1421 Fuller Road, apartment 302. You can take my car – gray Cherokee, in the staff lot." When Liz nodded, Don turned to Lydia. "I have a meeting with the assistant director at three – I need to keep that. But I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you," Lydia whispered.

Twenty minutes later, the women let themselves into Don's apartment. It was small, but neat – the door opened into a kitchenette, with two tall stools pushed under the counter. Three photographs were held onto the fridge with magnets from local take-out joints: the first of Don and Charlie and the second of Don and Lydia. _Those are from Stockton,_ Lydia thought. _I sent him those. _The third was the photo of the three of them from Don and Charlie's graduation. She looked at it sadly, wondering what ever happened to her copy.

A living room was beyond that, which held two easy chairs, a couple of end tables, a TV, a stereo system and a shelf precisely lined with books and CDs. The bathroom and bedroom were down a short hallway.

Liz looked at the dishes stacked in the drainer. "Are we sure a man lives here?"

Lydia gave her a small smile. "He always had the neatest room in the house," she said. "Even when we were kids." She sighed. "Can I ask you a question? What's a BOLO?"

"Be on the lookout for," Liz answered. "We're not supposed to use them for personal reasons, but if it's a good reason, the brass tends to look the other way."

Lydia nodded thoughtfully as Liz left. It hadn't occurred to her that Don had the resources to track her down if he so chose. The thought was comforting and frightening all at the same time.

* * *

Lydia was asleep in one of the living room chairs when Don arrived home three hours later. The yellow pages were open on the floor in front of her with the cordless phone on top. She'd showered and changed -- her hair was wet and she was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt that looked much too big for her. 

He knelt next to her and shook her arm gently. "Lyddie. Did you call home?"

She shook her head without opening her eyes.

"Then I'm going to."

Don reached over for the cordless and she stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm in trouble," she whispered.

"What kind of trouble?" he asked. She didn't answer. Don pulled gently away from her and when he picked up the receiver, he realized the phone book was open to the first page, with "abortion" printed at the top. He rocked back on his heels and stared at her, his eyes straying to her stomach without meaning to.

"I really don't want Mom and Dad to know," Lydia murmured. "I made an appointment for Friday afternoon. If you could give me a ride and let me crash for the weekend, I'll get out of your hair on Monday."

"And go where?"

"I'll figure something out."

The pieces were starting to click into place. "What are you saying? You're telling me you're homeless?"

"Of course not. I'm just between places."

"Christ, Lyddie." Don took a deep breath. "What happened? Were you assaulted?"

"No."

"Then who's the guy? Where the hell is _he_?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know where he is? Or you don't know who --"

"Stop interrogating me like I'm a suspect, Donny," she cut him off, yawning hugely.

Don had nothing to say to that. He sat on the floor next to her chair for a long time after she feel asleep, the phone in his lap, trying to decide what to do. Murderers didn't confound him as much as his sister did.

* * *

On Friday, Don took a personal day and drove Lydia to the free clinic. He walked her in past an uproar of right-to-life protesters, many of them shouting directly at them. He was aware they mistook him for the father and he felt inexplicably ashamed. When it was over, he took her back to his apartment and after she was settled in bed, sleeping with the aid of painkillers, he finally called their parents. 

Lydia slept clear through Friday and into the weekend, getting up only to use the bathroom and guzzle the bottles of water Don left on the nightstand. On Saturday afternoon, he leaned over her, shaking her gently. "Lyddie, can you wake up?" he asked softly. "I brought you something."

She swiped at him half-heartedly. There was whispering, then a cool hand on her forehead and the smell of Windsong perfume.

"Sweetheart, open your eyes and look at me," Margaret said.

Lydia obeyed, and both women burst into tears. Don backed quietly out of the room.

They emerged two hours later. Margaret excused herself to use the bathroom and Lydia sat carefully on one of Don's bar stools. "Mom says if we order Chinese she'll pay for it," she said in a small voice.

Don nodded and opened a drawer to find a menu. "I couldn't not call them, Lyddie," he said quietly. "And honestly, when Mom said she was coming, I was glad."

"I'm not mad at you." She picked at an imaginary spot on the counter. "She wants me to go back with her. She wants me to call Dad and Charlie."

Don handed her the phone and then, impulsively, hugged her from behind. He rested his chin on the top of her head. "You can't disappear, okay?" he pleaded. "You don't have to call every weekend. God knows I don't. But aside from being in the field, you guys always knew where I was, and even then, someone could have found me if there was an emergency."

"I know."

"Charlie sent us cards," Don went on. "Me and you -- he wanted us to go home for Thanksgiving. It was bugging him that we got so detached, I think is how he put it. When yours came back, he tried your cell and it was disconnected. It's – you can't do that anymore, Lyddie."

"Did you go?"

"Yeah. We missed you."

She leaned back into Don's embrace and started dialing the Craftsman house in Pasadena. "I missed you, too," she whispered.

* * *

Two weeks after she went back to California with her mother, Lydia found a job and an apartment in Santa Monica. Charlie gave her the money for her first and last month's rent and when she tried to pay him back, he refused to take it. 

"I'm just glad you're all right, Lyddie," he said, and his loving sincerity made her want to cry.

Don sent a postcard with his new address when he settled in Albuquerque. "Now that everyone's west of the Rio Grande, do you suppose we'll have a full house for the holidays?" Alan asked Margaret as they sat on the couch.

She smiled and kissed him deeply. "You never know," she said, tracing a finger under his collar.

Alan pushed his wife back against the cushions. She giggled like a schoolgirl – and they both jumped like they'd been caught by their parents when they heard a crash, then a mumbled curse, from upstairs.

"Now that we know where they all are, maybe we can work on having Charlie move out," he muttered.


	18. Chapter Sixteen

_A/N: Canon says during the time Don was in New Mexico, he didn't keep in close touch with his family. I think, given Lydia's propensity to disappear and Don's reaction to that, he'd be in bettter contact. He is still Don – I don't see him calling home every night or flying back once a month -- but I do think Lydia and Charlie would at least be aware Kim existed. And of Kim – if Don was the SAIC in Albuquerque, he would have been Kim's boss. So how did they date? Hopefully, my take on it is plausible. _

_Warning: this chapter contains references to Sept. 11, if you are sensitive to that subject matter. _

_Onward! And thanks for all your input, especially CharmedMummy and Beth Pryor. _

* * *

**Chapter 16**

**April 2001**

"Lydia's here," Charlie said, crossing the living room to go through to the kitchen. "I've got one thing to do in the garage and then I'll be out to help."

Alan looked at Margaret. "You know what that means."

"It means one of us will drag him in when his plate's already cold," Margaret answered as the front door swung open and Lydia came in, balancing a bag on her hip.

"Hi, sweetheart," Alan greeted his daughter. "You're just in time to help set the table."

"I'm always just in time for something."

"It's the price of dinner."

Lydia laughed and tossed her purse on the nearest chair. In the past year, she'd changed both jobs and apartments three times, but she had stayed in the LA area and true to her promise to Don, let her family know where she was. She was working as a waitress and on the Sundays she wasn't on duty, she generally came by the house for dinner. She always brought her mother flowers, usually provided a bottle of wine and sometimes invited a man along. Her family noted that none of them ever came twice and Charlie, at least, privately wondered if there was something off-putting about them.

Lydia pulled a vase and wine glasses out of the hutch. "What's for dinner?"

"Roast beef, et cetera." Alan kissed her cheek, quickly taking inventory. He used to wonder if she was ill – sometimes she looked wonderful and sometimes she looked awful. Today, she seemed tired and a little withdrawn, but she could have just been late at the restaurant the night before.

"It smells great." Lydia arranged the flowers and set a glass at everyone's place. "How long do we have after I set the table?"

"I'll set the table," Margaret said. "Go wrestle your brother out of the garage. If you start now, we might eat within the hour."

Lydia poured herself a glass of wine and took it outside. Alan watched her go with a worried frown.

"What?" Margaret asked, her eyes following their daughter.

"Nothing," he said slowly. Nothing he could put his finger on, anyway. It was as if during her time away, Lydia had lost pieces of herself.

In the garage, Charlie, predictably, was scribbling on the boards. Lydia sat down quietly on the old couch and waited for him to notice her. The staccato sound of the chalk clicking against the slate was both familiar and comforting.

Eventually, Charlie glanced over his shoulder. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You probably shouldn't be out here," he said, gesturing toward the boards. "This is part of my consulting work and it's all classified."

She snorted. "Yeah, like I know what any of it means. The only formula of yours I could ever follow was the one you did about getting drunk."

He looked at her sharply. "You still have that?"

She tapped her own forehead. "Memorized," she teased.

Charlie pointed his chalk at her. "You totally tricked me into that. I only did it because Caroline was so pretty and she actually touched me." Even now, almost ten years later, Charlie blushed. "How _is_ Caroline?"

"She's good. Married a guy she met at San Diego State. The last I heard, she had a couple of kids."

"The last you heard?" Charlie asked, surprised. "You guys were so close. You don't hear from her?"

"Not much. I hear from Ellen, Caroline talks to Ellen, so I heard."

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened People grow apart, Charlie, you know?"

He shook his head, and Lydia realized with a pang that he didn't know. He hadn't had childhood friends, not the way she and Don had – he was always mentally too far ahead of the kids his age and chronologically too behind the kids in his grade.

"Anyway," Lydia said awkwardly, "dinner's almost ready."

Charlie turned to the board, nodded to himself, and placed the chalk in the rail.

"So what is that, anyway?" she asked lightly. "Firewalls? Plans to rob banks? What?"

"If I told you," Charlie said solemnly, "I'd have to kill you."

* * *

"It won't fit."

"It _will_."

"It _won't._ Don't you see it's stuck?"

"No, I see it's upside down."

Don let go of his end of the couch and stepped away. The piece of furniture, securely wedged in the enclosed stairway, didn't budge. There was no way it was getting up into the second-floor apartment.

At the other end of the sofa, Special Agent Kimberly Hall, Don's girlfriend and soon-to-be domestic partner, sighed loudly. "If you back it up and we flip it over, it will fit," she insisted. "I measured it."

"Did you measure the angles?" Don asked. "The bend in the stairs? The slant in the ceiling? There's some ratio or something, probably."

She peeked at him over the top of the couch. "Eppes, what the hell are you talking about?"

_And Charlie thinks I don't pay attention when he babbles on and on, _Don thought dryly. "Never mind." He stretched and put his hands back on the couch. "We'll try it your way. Go on. Push it back. But easy … easy! Stop!"

The couch popped free like a cork out of a champagne bottle and knocked Don down the four stairs to the landing. He landed hard on his ass with a grunt as his end of the couch fell heavily on the step and stopped, stuck again.

"Shit! Oh my God!" Kim scrambled over the sofa. "Don? Honey? Are you all right?"

He started to laugh helplessly. Kim dropped down next to him. "I'm sorry. I really thought it'd fit."

"Maybe we should just stick to catching the bad guys," Don suggested.

"Too bad we can't just shoot it," Kim answered.

Don and Kim had been together for a little more than a year. She'd come into the Albuquerque office as a consultant from Denver, helping on a fraud case. What started as a couple of lunch dates had turned into a full-fledged romance. They dated long-distance for a few months and by the time Kim was sent to New Mexico permanently, four months into it, they had already fallen in love.

At first, they tried to keep their relationship secret but soon realized that despite their best efforts to be discreet, everyone knew anyway. They had abandoned the ruse altogether the morning Kim's superior, Patrick MacGregor, called Don's cell phone and demanded, "Where the hell is Hall? I've got a drug bust going down in twenty minutes and only half my team." Hall had been asleep, naked, in Don's bed.

It was a little embarrassing to have to report their romance to Human Resources – Don, as the Special Agent in Charge, was technically Kim's boss, though she worked on MacGregor's team – but they'd agreed it was worth it. Now, after months of sleepovers, they'd rented the second floor of a duplex in Los Candelarias, ten minutes from the FBI office.

When Don told Lydia he and Kim were moving in together, she'd asked, "Is she The One?" He could hear the capital letters in her question.

"I don't know, maybe, we'll see," Don stammered in reply, and he knew by the way he stumbled over the words his sister could very well be right.

Don looked over at Kim. She smiled. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. He sometimes thought his whole world could fall apart and that would be all right, as long as Kim kept smiling at him like that.

"You know, I've lived for years without a couch," Don said amiably, looking at the flowered monstrosity teetering above them. "It's really not such a big deal."

"I love that couch," Kim objected. "We snuggle on that couch."

"We snuggle in bed, too," Don answered.

They sounded decidedly unlike hardened feds.

"I don't suppose we can leave it there," she said finally, pushing herself to her feet.

They wrestled it down the stairs and out the door. Exhausted, they set it carefully on the sidewalk and collapsed on it.

Don pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "Pizza or Chinese?"

"Pizza. With lots of cheese. And beer. Do we have any beer left?"

Don held out a fist as his call went through. After two ties of rock, paper, scissors, Kim swore softly under her breath and went into their new home. She returned with four beers in a cooler, a pint of ice cream and two spoons and a roll of paper towels. "It's a nice night for a picnic," she said. "Might as well eat out here, since we have the seating."

"Beer and ice cream?" Don said dubiously.

"So don't eat it. More for me."

They polished it off – pizza, ice cream and beer all – then settled down to have one last snuggle on the couch and watch the stars come out. Before they went inside, Don wrote "free to a good home" on the outside of the pizza box and left it propped up against the cushions. In the morning, the couch was gone.

* * *

**Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001**

Don clawed his way out from under the covers and fumbled for his cell phone. "Eppes."

"Don, it's Nick Garth," his supervisor said.

The greeting was enough to wake Don completely – he and the assistant director had never been on a first-name basis. "Yes, sir."

"New York City has been hit by terrorists."

"It – what?" Don sat up and shook Kim, looking at the clock. It was just six.

"A flight attendant on an American Airlines plane out of Boston called in about forty-five minutes ago saying there was a hijacking in progress," Garth went on tersely. **"**Fifteen minutes ago, that plane went into the North Tower of the World Trade Center."

Kim bent her head toward him and Don tilted the phone so they could both hear.She picked up the remote and turned on CNN to see a shot of the Manhattan skyline. Smoke was billowing out of the tower.

"Director Mueller wants all available personnel to report in immediately," Garth went on."For now, it sounds like we'll be helping with border and airport security, as well as trying to figure out who the bastards are who did this. We'll debrief, and then I want everyone to take a minute to check in with their families. We're going to be here for the foreseeable future."

"I'm on my way, sir," Don said. He closed his cell phone and started to get out of bed. Kim suddenly grabbed his arm and gasped in horror, pointing at the television. They watched together, astounded, as Flight 175 went into the South Tower.

* * *

By the time Alan turned off the shower, the phone had stopped ringing. He stepped into the bedroom and glanced at the alarm clock. It wasn't even seven – who could be calling?

He looked out the window and saw Margaret by the koi pond in her robe, feeding the fish. That explained why she hadn't heard the phone, and Charlie slept like the dead anyway.

Alan dressed quickly and went downstairs, just as Margaret was coming in the back door. "Did I hear the phone ring?" she asked.

"Yeah, I missed it." Alan saw the blinking light of the answering machine. "Whoever it was left a message."

He pushed the button and they heard Don's voice fill the room. "Mom, Dad, it's me. Listen, I don't know if you've seen the news this morning, but there's some bad stuff going on – there are planes being used as terrorist weapons – two in New York and one just crashed into the Pentagon. It's – God." He drew a ragged breath. "We're all right, but Kim and I will be flat out on this for a long time, so don't worry if you don't hear from me, okay? You should stay home today. Tell Lyddie and Charlie. Maybe you can have Lydia come to your house. Call the field office in LA if there's any problem." There was a long pause and then Don's voice dropped a decibel. "I'll call when I can. I love you."

The "I love you" told Alan that, despite his FBI training and cool demeanor under pressure, his oldest son was profoundly disturbed by the morning's events.

Margaret turned on the television. She watched for a moment then sat down heavily. "Alan, oh my God, look. One of the towers fell. Are there people in there?" Tears streaked her cheeks. A piece of paper was clutched in her hand. "And this was on the kitchen table."

_Called in on a consulting job. Didn't want to wake you. Don't worry.  
Charlie_

"I knew when Donny joined the FBI, he'd be in dangerous situations," Margaret said softly. "I didn't like it – I still don't like it – but I knew it. But this … I didn't imagine he'd ever be in the middle of something like this."

"Who could have imagined something like this?" Alan choked.

"Charlie is in the middle of this too," she said, her voice suddenly fierce and angry. "I know he can't tell us what he's doing, but I know it's the government. I'm not stupid."

Alan sat next to her and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm going to do what Donny suggested, get Lydia over here," he said quietly.

"Then what?"

"Then," he said carefully, "I guess we wait."

* * *

It was the weekend before Don and Kim were home at the same time and could have any sort of substantial conversation that did not involve the attacks. They were both emotionally and physically exhausted and wanted nothing else but to fall asleep in each other's arms.

Don called his parents' house and Lydia answered, bursting into tears when she heard his voice.

"Lyddie, stop, I'm all right," he soothed. "I wasn't even near anything dangerous."

"I hate your job, Donny," she sniffled before handing the phone to Margaret.

Kim talked to her sister in Des Moines and her parents in Kansas City and like Don, tried to reassure them. "We're fine here, honestly, it's just tripled our work load," she said. "I can't tell you anything classified, but there's no reason for you to worry about us or about yourselves, really."

Neither of them was sure they weren't lying.

They split a can of soup and showered. Then they made love, fiercely, almost violently, trying to erase the idea that the world had turned upside down and would almost certainly never be righted.

Seven months later, both of them still deep in the investigation, Don proposed. Kim hesitated for such a brief moment before saying "yes" that Don was sure he imagined it.


	19. Chapter Seventeen

_Since I don't know the details of Margaret's cancer, I filled in my own based on personal experience. Thanks so much for your reviews. It reminds me I need to review those stories I love instead of just reading them and thinking, "Wow!"_

* * *

**Chapter 17  
June 2002**

Margaret had been sitting on the landing for almost a half hour before Alan came in the front door.

"Hi," he started to say. "What are you --"

She held up one hand to stop the words and found she couldn't speak. Alan was at her side in an instant.

"Maggie? Sweetheart?"

"I can't seem to breathe," she wheezed, and she got no further before Alan was calling 911 and shouting to see if Charlie was home.

It took two breathing treatments in the emergency room before Margaret was able to tell them what had happened. She'd been feeling ill and lightheaded for a few days and had come home early from her little law office, intending to lie down, but she found herself unable to make it up the stairs.

"Why didn't you call me?" Alan admonished her.

"I couldn't get to the phone."

Alan closed his eyes, blinking back sudden tears. "I meant in the city," he said, his tone growing gentler. "I could have brought you home – or straight to the doctor."

"I knew you were in that meeting with the mayor," she answered. "I'm not trying to be a martyr; I really didn't think it was that big a deal."

Two days later, the Eppeses learned how terribly wrong Margaret had been. The reason she couldn't breathe was because of the tumor encased in her left lung. Two smaller tumors were in her right. A few tests later, the doctors told them the largest tumor was not only malignant, it was also in a bad spot, so surgery was not an option.

The oncologist suggested an aggressive round of chemotherapy to shrink the tumor. He said it would make Margaret more comfortable. No one talked about what to do with the smaller tumors and no one said anything this time about curing her cancer. Though the doctor didn't say so, Alan and Margaret knew he was talking about buying time.

Again, Margaret told her husband she wanted to keep the information between the two of them. This time, Alan outright refused and summoned his daughter and youngest son immediately. They sat in the living room, Margaret and Alan on the couch, Charlie and Lydia in the easy chairs, and explained clearly and simply what Margaret's diagnosis was. Alan had to keep stopping to blow his nose, which made both his children tear up themselves.

"You didn't smoke," Charlie said slowly. Just like when they'd discussed her first illness, Margaret could see the numbers whirling in his head. "Dad did, right? When we were little. But that shouldn't have made any difference -- "

Alan looked as if he'd been punched.

"Charlie," Lydia said sharply. "Watch your mouth."

"What? I was just …" Charlie caught the look on his father's face and flushed. "I didn't mean it was your fault, Dad, I just --" He shot to his feet and started pacing. "God," he mumbled. "My _God._" He turned to face Margaret. "You must have been short of breath, at least a little – why didn't you say anything?"

"Honey, I'm fifty-eight years old," Margaret said. "I just thought I had to join a gym."

Lydia caught Charlie's hand as he walked past and pulled him down so he was sitting on the arm of her chair. She squeezed hard. Charlie squeezed back. "Did they give you any sort of a timeline?" she asked her mother, trying to keep her voice even. "When you should start chemo, how long … well, how long the chemo will help you, that sort of thing?"

Charlie bent his head. A moment later Lydia felt his tears on their clasped hands.

"We're going to start the chemo right away and then see what happens," Margaret said placidly. "But I don't think Willard Scott is going to be wishing me a happy birthday."

They all stared at her. After a dazed moment, Lydia started to laugh, helplessly and a little hysterically, despite the looks her father and brother were shooting her. "That's all right, Mom," she said. "Everyone watches 'Good Morning America' anyway."

"How can you be so calm?" Charlie choked.

"What's our alternative?" Margaret asked seriously. "If panic would get rid of these tumors, I'd be screaming in the street."

"So chemo starts right away?" Lydia asked, trying to get the conversation back on some sort of track.

"Yes, Tuesday. Three times a week for three weeks, a week off, then three more weeks." Margaret tried to take a deep breath to preface her next statement but started coughing instead. Alan handed her the inhaler her doctor had prescribed and they all waited until the storm passed. When she could speak, she said, "I want to get started on this before I call Don."

"No," Alan said firmly.

"You should call him right now," Charlie objected.

Margaret held up a hand. "It's dangerous for him to be distracted."

"He has a right to know," Lydia said quietly.

"I'll tell him," Margaret promised. "Let me get started on this and I'll tell him."

Her husband and children exchanged uneasy glances. Alan finally said, "All right, Maggie, your call. We'll wait."

Four months later, when the cancer metastasized in Margaret's liver and spleen, Lydia stopped waiting and started calling her brother herself.

* * *

**October 2002**

Don glanced down at his cell phone, saw his sister's name and number, and ignored it. _Four in the afternoon,_ he thought ruefully. _Happy hour somewhere. _

In the past few months, Lydia had taken to calling Don late, mostly after midnight, when she'd had too much to drink. After the first few times, Don couldn't stand the pitying, annoyed looks Kim gave him, so he took to leaving his phone on vibrate and screening her calls. He couldn't help but listen to the voice mails – slurred pronouncements of how much she loved and missed him and how he should think about planning a visit home. The last few weeks, the calls had come almost daily.

He never called back. It had been hard enough to talk to his family lately. He and Kim had been engaged for more than six months and they still didn't know.

Don told himself it was because he wanted to announce it in person. He was hoping to get back to Pasadena in December, for the bastardized holidays the Eppeses had always celebrated. There was always a menorah, but Margaret, having had a Protestant grandfather, loved Christmas, so there was always a tree and lights as well. He'd imagined Kim would go with him and they'd tell his family together.

Yet every time one of them mentioned setting a wedding date, the other had a reason to wait a little longer. Maybe, in his heart of hearts, he was afraid to tell his family because he feared it wouldn't last.

His phone buzzed again. _Speak of the devil,_ he thought and cleared his throat before he answered. "Hey."

"Hey. I'm on my way home."

"Where are you?"

"At the airport – but I have a direct flight home from DC." Kim had flown out to Washington to interview for a position with the Secret Service, a change she'd wanted for as long as Don had known her.

"How did it go?" Don asked.

"Really well," she said enthusiastically. "They liked me, I liked them, and I'm qualified so … we'll see. My flight lands around eleven -- wait up for me and I'll tell you all about it."

"Of course," he said, with an easiness he didn't feel. That was another reason the wedding plans were stalled – Don figured it didn't pay to argue about where they were going to live and what would happen with his career until Kim was offered the job. It looked like it was time to have that conversation. "If I doze off, wake me up."

"Will do. Oops, they're boarding, I'll see you soon."

"Okay. I --" The dial tone interrupted him.

He was lying in bed watching Nightline, waiting for Kim to arrive, before he remembered his sister's message. She sounded stone-cold sober and quite annoyed. "Don, it's Lydia. Listen, I don't know what I did to piss you off, or why you won't call me back, but something's happened. So if you won't call me, call Daddy or Charlie. Soon."

_Daddy? Not Mom and Dad, just Dad? _An unreasonable fear seized Don's gut. Reluctant to call his parents so late, he tried Lydia's cell and got voice mail. Then he called Charlie's.

"Hey, Charlie," he said nervously after his brother's hurried hello, "listen, I got this weird message from Lyddie, and it's probably nothing, right, but --"

"It's something," Charlie cut him off. "I think you need to come home."

* * *

It took Don most of the morning to reassign his responsibilities and arrange for a short emergency leave. He left Albuquerque after a hurried lunch with Kim and drove straight through the eleven and a half hours to Pasadena.

It was after midnight when he arrived. The house was dark and Don crept up the stairs quietly. His parents' door was ajar and he paused a moment, not wanting to open it, but taking comfort in the sounds of their sleeping. Charlie's door was closed. The door to Lydia's old room was wide open and Don paused in the doorway, taking in the unmade bed and the pile of boxes in the corner. _She moved back in? When? _

His childhood room looked much like it had the last time he'd slept in it, save the whiteboard full of equations propped up against his desk. Exhausted, Don dropped his bag, stripped to his underwear and crawled under the covers.

Some time later, stage whispers woke him – his brother and sister were quietly easing the door open. Don had shifted in his sleep and was facing away from them, the sheet and thin blanket puddled around his waist.

"Are you sure it's him?"

"Of course it's him, Charlie. There's a car in the driveway with government plates from New Mexico. Besides, he's in his own bed, who else could it be?"

"Don." Charlie's voice was hoarse. "Don, you awake?"

Don didn't move. He wasn't ready to see or speak to either of them. Talking to Charlie the night before had been difficult for both of them. He wasn't ready to hear _Mom has terminal cancer_, not yet.

"He probably drove straight through," Lydia whispered. She wanted to be mad at Don for dodging her calls, but all she felt was overwhelming relief that he had come. She crept into the room and pulled the covers up over Don's shoulder, then rested her hand in his hair for the briefest of moments. "He'll be here in the morning. Or later this morning. It's two a.m. – I'm never picking you up from school again."

"There was an equation," Charlie said petulantly. "I lost track of time."

Don smiled into his pillow.

"Come on, let's go to bed," Lydia said.

"I'm glad he came," Don heard Charlie murmur as the door closed quietly behind them.

Don flipped over on his back, staring at the ceiling. He was sure he'd be sleepless for the rest of the night but the next thing he knew, sunlight was streaming in the window. He glanced at his watch and groaned. It was only six o'clock – he hadn't thought to close the shade.

He went downstairs to make coffee. As he filled the pot with water, he glanced out the window above the sink and was startled to see someone sitting outside by the pond. It was a woman, slight and bent, with her robe drawn around her as if she were cold in the morning sunshine. _Charlie didn't mention Aunt Irene was here,_ Don thought, wondering when Margaret's elderly aunt had arrived. He plugged in the coffee pot and pulled out two mugs from the cupboard.

When he opened the back door, the woman turned, and he saw it wasn't Aunt Irene at all. The frail woman watching the koi was his mother.

* * *

"Lyddie?" Charlie leaned in his sister's doorway. "Can you please come here?"

She marked her place in her magazine and set aside her bottle of beer. "Sure."

Charlie led her into his room and pointed out the window. It looked down upon the backyard, where Don sat alone, barely visible in the moonlight. Even in the dim light they could both see how his shoulders were shaking. He was almost in the exact spot he'd found his mother in that morning.

"I don't know what to do," Charlie said miserably.

Don had been uncharacteristically quiet and subdued all day, pretty much speaking only when asked a direct question. He made no requests and offered no information – he simply stayed next to his mother.

"Come on." Lydia led him down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door.

Don was sitting on the bench by the koi pond, his hands clenched in his lap. He was fighting mightily for control. Lydia sat next to him and rubbed his shoulder. At her touch, he stiffened, then lost it completely, bending his head and sobbing into his fists for a moment. Charlie went into the garage and came out with a box of tissues. He sat on Don's other side and handed him one, which made Don cry a little more.

"I hate to cry," Don said thickly. He swiped a hand across his eyes and patted his chest. "It hurts. I hate it. That's why I never do it."

"Now might be a good time to reconsider your philosophy," Charlie suggested softly.

Don tried to take a deep breath, dismayed to find it hitched in his throat. His siblings waited while he blew his nose and tried to compose himself.

"When – when did she find out?"

"June," Lydia answered. "It was bad from the beginning but it's gotten worse over the last couple of weeks. The chemo's not doing too much to touch it. They're going to change the dosage or the mixture or something and see if that helps."

"She was afraid to tell you," Charlie said. "I think she thought you'd get all preoccupied and put yourself at risk."

"How much – how much time?" Don had to make a conscious effort to keep his voice steady.

Charlie leaned his head back and stared at the stars. "No one will give us a straight answer. They say there are too many variables, which is complete nonsense. I could figure it out with the right data." His voice dropped and he admitted, "But I'm afraid to."

Lydia reached over Don to hold his hand.

Charlie wound his fingers around his sister's. "Um ... this isn't the first time," he mumbled. "She had breast cancer a couple of years back. She didn't want to tell you guys."

Don stared at him but Lydia said quietly, "I know."

"You know?" Don echoed.

"She told me when I was at your house in Virginia," Lydia answered. "After. She told me not to tell you that, either, and then it went out of my head, because she was fine. It was her call."

Don was shaking his head helplessly.

"This was her call, too," Charlie said. "For what it's worth, we all thought she was wrong."

Don shuddered and managed, "You should have told me anyway."

"I tried to tell you anyway," Lydia pointed out. "You never called me back."

Don stared at her, suddenly horrified, and his tears spilled over a second time.

Charlie handed him more tissues and rubbed his big brother's back. Lydia slipped her free hand in the crook of Don's elbow. They sat together for a long time in the dark, silently holding each other as best they could.


	20. Chapter Eighteen

_FYI: This chapter contains some adult language. _

* * *

**Chapter 18  
Still October 2002**

Charlie stared at the figures on his blackboard. He was afraid. It was the first time he could remember that numbers had not provided him comfort.

Numbers had always been Charlie's security. Instead of sucking his thumb or carrying around a blankie, he calculated pi to fifty or more places and counted prime digits past 1,000. Numbers were Charlie's consolations – one and one always made two. They were always the same. They didn't lie. They led him down a path and at the end of that path, reliably, was reality. A fact. A hard, cold, irrefutable fact.

The "M" on his blackboard was his mother. He stood back and wondered if it stood for "Margaret" or "Mom." He had left the chalk behind seven times in the last two hours, once making it all the way out to the courtyard, before inevitably returning. He was drawn to the equation, the same way an untreated alcoholic is drawn to the drink.

And it terrified him.

_You're not looking for the fact. You're looking for the anomaly that will make your mother well. _

The voice in his head sounded like Margaret's.

"There you are, Charles. Is everything all right? "

Charlie felt, rather than saw, Larry come in and perch on the edge of his desk. "Fine," he said shortly.

"Charles." Larry's voice was more insistent. "I am puzzled as to why you let your teaching assistant take your freshman calculus class. She seems puzzled as well and it was perhaps not a good choice, since Rolle's Theorem seems beyond her grasp."

"My mother is dying." Charlie said, as if that were the most logical explanation in the world.

"Well, yes, but aren't we all dying? We --"

"I'm not speaking metaphorically." Charlie kept scribbling.

Larry looked stricken. He knew about Margaret's previous bout with breast cancer and he knew she had been diagnosed again, but he had not been aware her prognosis was so dire.

"I'm unquestionably sorry to hear this," he said quietly. "How is your family managing?"

"Don's home," Charlie said. "Lyddie's moved back in. It's nice to have them here, I guess. But it's bad. Because it means it's bad." His writing grew more frantic. "I'm twenty-seven years old and I don't know what I'll do without my mother. That seems impractical and juvenile."

"It is neither impractical nor juvenile to love one's parent," Larry admonished him gently. Charlie didn't answer, and after a moment Larry went on companionably, "You know, stars never really die."

Charlie's chalk stuttered momentarily.

"Stars are not merely celestial life forms. Your mother, certainly, is a shining star," Larry went on quietly. "A dear lady, who will surely live on in our memories."

"Stars live for millions of years," Charlie said. He backed away from the blackboard and threw down the chalk. It shattered on the floor. "I have not had nearly enough time."

Larry sighed. "I know, my young friend. I know. Infinity itself is often not enough time."

* * *

Lydia slumped over the dining room table, rubbing at her face. After a moment, Alan came up behind her and massaged her shoulders. 

"Mmm, Dad, that feels great," she said.

"You're a good girl, Lyddie, to help take care of your mother." Alan rubbed at a knot near his daughter's neck. "But you have to take care of yourself, too."

Don came through the front door, shrugging off his jacket. He was carrying a six pack of beer and without asking, pulled out three bottles, opened them with the church key he kept on his key ring, and handed them out.

Alan nodded his thanks and said to Lydia, "Is Mom asleep?"

"Yeah. That chemo is knocking her on her ass."

"That's because they're filling her full of poison," Don said in disgust. "You know how they discovered chemo? World War I soldiers exposed to mustard gas. Some of them had cancer and showed an improvement."

Alan shivered uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry," Don said, suddenly ashamed.

"It's all right." Alan changed the subject. "Don, how long can you stay?"

"Not long. I need to be back by Monday morning." He took a swallow of beer and set it down on the table in front of him, picking nervously at the label. "I've been thinking, though. I'm going to see if I can get transferred to the LA office."

Lydia's eyes widened.

"Donny," Alan said with obvious relief, "that would be wonderful. Can you do that?"

"Sure. Family first, right?"

"I meant will it hurt your career."

Don shrugged. "It shouldn't. I'm the SAC, I've put in almost eight years – I have some say. Besides, under the circumstances …"

His voice trailed off. Alan clapped him on the shoulder. "Your mother will love to have you here," he said huskily.

"Don't get too excited," Don cautioned him. "I'm going to find my own place." Alan looked a little crestfallen and Don amended quickly, "But I'll crash here until I do, all right?"

"Of course, son, this is your home."

Don smiled slightly. It was his home. Somehow, after all the years that had passed, that was still true.

It wasn't until Alan left the table that Lydia turned to her brother and said, "What about Kim?"

Don shrugged. He had called her that first day to let her know he'd arrived safely and things with his mother didn't look promising. Kim had said all the appropriate comforting things but somehow, when they hung up, Don hadn't felt any better.

"I don't know," he answered. "It's complicated."

"It shouldn't be complicated," Lydia said dismissively.

He sighed. "Not every relationship is like Mom and Dad's, you know."

Lydia thought about that. She thought about Alan's worn, tear-streaked face as he explained Margaret was sick again. Alan was taking an early retirement to spend as much time as he could with his wife. They looked at one another with tenderness and always touched one another when they passed – a gentle finger on a shoulder, a hand briefly on a cheek. It was sweet and endearing and heartbreaking all at once.

"I know," Lydia said. "But I think it ought to be."

* * *

**The following week**

Kim was in the field and unreachable when Don returned to Albuquerque. Even though it was late on a Sunday evening, Don went into the office, thinking he'd start to check messages and catch up on what had happened in his absence. Instead, he found himself on the agency's intranet, looking for openings in the LA office. Because of its size and importance Los Angeles was not headed by an SAC but by an Assistant Director In Charge, to whom the SACs reported.

There were two openings. If he transferred, Don would retain his title and pay scale, but he wouldn't be responsible for the entire office. It would be a demotion in practice if not on paper.

Not that it mattered. He didn't really have a choice.

He left the pile of paperwork sitting on his desk and went home. Kim didn't get back until early the next morning, when Don was dressing for work.

"Hey!" She rushed over to him, hugging him tightly. "Oswald said he thought he saw you last night. When did you get back?"

"Yesterday. Early evening." Don poured himself a cup of coffee and looked at Kim questioningly. She shook her head. "Bust go down all right?"

"Yeah. Just took forever, is all. I hate it when the suspects don't follow our schedule." She paused, then asked gently, "How's your mom?"

"Not good," Don replied. "Pretty bad, in fact."

He set down his coffee cup and headed into their bedroom. Kim followed him, waiting while he opened the closet and chose a tie.

"Don," she said quietly, "The Secret Service offered me an assignment."

"That's great," he said hollowly.

"I'm sorry about the timing," she went on, in that same soft tone. "But I didn't know."

"I can't go to DC," Don said.

She nodded thoughtfully. "I understand you can't come now. You want to spend time with your mother, of course."

He looped his tie around his neck and turned to face her. She put her hand on his arm. "This is a great opportunity for me, Don," she said. "By next year, the Secret Service will be part of Homeland Security – it'll be a brand new agency. It's a great chance to get in on something new and exciting from the very beginning."

"I --"

"They want me to start within the month. I was thinking, I can leave in a couple of weeks, find us a place --"

"Kim."

Kim snapped her mouth at shut the look on Don's face.

"Listen to me," he said when he had her attention. "I'm not telling you not to accept. I'm trying to explain that I can't go with you. I was looking last night to see what's available in LA. I have to go back."

"Okay," she said in a small voice.

"I was going to ask you if you'd reconsider locating," Don said. "I wasn't thinking we'd be relocating on opposite coasts."

There was a long moment of silence.

"How long?" Kim asked finally. "We did the long distance thing before. It's not ideal, but --"

"How long what?" he interrupted.

"How long will you be in LA?"

"How long?" Don stared at her incredulously. "I don't know. Should I call and ask my mother how long she thinks it might take her to die so we can get on with our fucking lives?"

He whirled and punched the closet door, hard, to keep from bursting into tears. His fist went right through the luan.

"I didn't mean it like that," Kim mumbled.

"You took it, didn't you?" Don said to the doorjamb. "You took it already."

"That's not fair. I didn't know you were planning on moving back to California."

"When?"

She winced. "Wednesday."

"You didn't call me. You didn't tell me."

"I wanted to tell you in person," she objected.

He brushed by her, shaking out his bruised hand. He paused in front of the mirror to knot his tie.

"Here I am," he said. "And you still haven't told me."

"I'm sorry your mom is sick, but I couldn't know you were planning to go back to California!" she cried. "You didn't tell me, either. You did the same thing."

He shook his head. "I looked to see if there was a transfer available. You took a job across the country without even talking to me about it. That doesn't have anything to do with my mom being sick."

"I don't need your permission," she huffed and then sank down on the bed as she realized what she was saying.

"I guess you don't," he said evenly.

"I didn't intend to hurt you," Kim whispered in a choked voice.

"No." He refused to meet her eyes. "No one ever does."

* * *

The Regional Director, in light of Don's stellar record and Margaret's illness, called LA's ADIC Walt Merrick personally and asked him to approve the transfer as quickly as possible. Three weeks later, the second-floor apartment in Los Candelarias was empty -- Kim was on her way to Washington and Don was headed home. 

Both Lydia and Charlie offered to fly out and drive back with him. Don refused. He hired a mover and rented a storage space in LA for the furniture he and Kim hadn't sold, then packed the remaining boxes in the back of his SUV and took two days to drive to Pasadena. By the time he arrived, he had almost convinced himself the breakup didn't matter.

He forgot all about Kim's engagement ring until she mailed it to him in February with a short note.

_Don -- I thought you should have this back. I really am sorry things ended as they did. I hope your mom is feeling better and I hope you're well. - K. _

He read the note three times before tossing it, and the ring, back into the envelope. It ended up in a box in his parents' basement.


	21. Chapter Nineteen

_Here's our next installment. Thanks again for reading and for all your reviews. I have the next chapter half-written, so I'm hoping for a speedy update. _

* * *

**Chapter 19  
March 2003**

It was coming out in clumps.

It had taken a long time for Margaret to lose her hair – so long, in fact, that she'd started to believe she wouldn't, even though the doctors told her over and over again it was inevitable. She wanted to be an anomaly, as Charlie would have called it.

But a week ago, it had started to fall out in tufts, little piles on the pillow in the morning. Within two days, it was everywhere, and there were patches on her head, so Margaret called her hairdresser to have the rest of it cut off.

The appointment was in a half-hour. Margaret tried to steady herself against the sink. _It's only hair, it's only hair, _she repeated to herself. She had a drawer full of pretty purple and blue scarves, presents from her sister-in-law, Becky, and she was trying to wind one of them around her head, but her eyes were so full of tears she couldn't see.

There was a gentle tap on the door. "Mom? Are you all right?"

_Oh, Charlie. What's going to happen to you? _"Sure, sweets, I'm fine."

"Dad's waiting – do you need help?"

"Not unless you can tie a turban."

Charlie opened the door and watched while Margaret kept fumbling with the kerchief. "Did I hear Don go?" she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Yeah, a little while ago."

"What about you? I haven't seen you for more than ten minutes in a few days. Did you put down the chalk long enough to sleep?"

"I'm fine, Mom. I came in to see about you."

"I'm just trying to figure out this scarf thing. Where's your sister?"

"Still asleep," Charlie answered. "Too much wine, I think."

"I thought I heard the piano late last night," Margaret mused. "I didn't dream it, huh?"

"Show tunes," Charlie answered. "And she wanted Don and me to sing with her. It was ugly."

Margaret smiled, but it faded as her eyes fell on the hair in the sink. "Ugly?" she tried to joke. "That's not ugly. This is ugly."

Her voice caught and Charlie crossed to his mother and held her tightly."Tell you what," he murmured. "I'll shave my head too."

"I would never let you do that," Margaret said, astonished.

"I would do anything for you, Mom," he answered simply. Charlie's hair was long, thick and curly. It was the envy of his sister and though Charlie claimed to not be vain, he seldom had it cut and had more hair care products than Margaret and Lydia combined. The idea that he would willingly crop it all off, just so she would feel better, meant more to his mother than she could voice.

"Your father says bald is in. Who was that singer – that Irish girl who didn't like the Pope?"

"Sinead O'Connor," Charlie said. "And Demi Moore shaved her head for that GI Jane movie. I never saw it. Don liked it, though."

Margaret pushed away from Charlie gently and wiped at her face. "I'm all right, honey. I'm being silly. It's just hair."

"I know that," Charlie answered, his own eyes welling up. "But it's your hair."

Margaret nodded solemnly. They cried together while Charlie carefully cleaned the hair out of the sink and Margaret wound one of her new scarves around her head.

* * *

"Damn, Donny. Aren't you ever going to unpack?"

Lydia was walking through Don's Los Angeles apartment. He'd been back for almost four months, in his own place for six weeks, and there was still a neat row of boxes along the wall under the window.

"I haven't been here enough to unpack," Don objected.

It was true. Between spending time with Margaret and his duties with the FBI, Don barely found time to shower – and even that was frequently done at his parents' house.

Don's transfer had gone through smoothly but he was still getting used to being lower on the internal chain of command. After a few initial power struggles, ADIC Walt Merrick had backed off and let him do his job without looking over his shoulder, though Don was sure he'd still poke his nose in if he believed it was warranted.

Don worked well with the agents assigned to his team. He liked the rookie, David Sinclair – he was smart and had good instincts, though David was afraid to challenge Don, even when he was sure he was right. And his forensic psychologist partner turned out to be none other than Terry Lake, who had greeted him with a decidedly unprofessional warm hug. Terry and her husband had separated, which made Don wonder if, given time, he might have a chance to renew their relationship. The thought made him feel a bit like a cad.

Lydia opened the door of Don's extra bedroom. There was an old bureau in one corner and a chair in another, but it was mostly full of more boxes, clearly being used as a storage area.

"Hey," she teased, "You better clean this out. I thought it was going to be mine. For when Charlie was driving me crazy."

"Charlie hasn't been around enough to drive us crazy," Don pointed out quietly.

She nodded her agreement, pulling the door closed with a small frown. In the past several weeks, the Eppes family had fallen into a new pattern. Lydia left her waitressing job and was taking care of the house and Margaret's personal needs. Alan had taken early retirement and drove Margaret to her medical appointments. Don spent all his free time at his parents', took care of the yard and any other little things that needed to be done, and kept his mother company.

But over the last several weeks, Charlie had grown more distant from his family, a self-imposed isolation so gradual it took them a little while to notice. The missed dinners became a little more frequent. There were hurriedly scribbled notes on the breakfast table a little more often. He worked late at CalSci and when he was home was regularly in the garage with his headphones on as he filled his blackboards.

Charlie's numbers were a live entity with a voice of their own and when Charlie was anxious, they grew louder. His family all knew this. But Margaret was the only one who could easily pull him back and she wasn't feeling well enough to be insistent.

"Do you know anything about the Millennium Problems?" Lydia asked. When Don shook his head, she explained, "Charlie's been mumbling about something called P vs. NP, and he's been really adamant about it, so I asked Dr. Fleinhardt. This math institute in Boston named seven supposedly unsolvable math problems and if you crack one, you get a million bucks. This P vs. NP thing is one of them."

"That sounds like something Charlie would get off on," Don said. "The unsolvable part, I mean."

"They're unsolvable for a reason," Lydia said. "They should be called the Incredible Waste of Time Problems. One of them has to do with quantum physics, one's almost a hundred years old – you know how he is when he's trying to figure something out, Don. If he gets stuck in this, he could be in the garage until he's forty."

"Is he still going to work?" At Lydia's nod, Don said, "If he's working and eating and sort of sleeping, he's fine. As fine as he can be."

"Don't you remember when he was working on his convergence theory? I bet he lost fifteen pounds. When he was done, Mom said he slept for almost two days straight. And I saw him spend a week out there last year – a whole week, and I swear if Mom hadn't brought him food and water he'd have ended up in the hospital." She shivered a little. "It makes me nervous. Now's not a good time for him to be obsessed."

No matter what the doctors tried, Margaret's cancer wasn't getting much better. Though no one had said it, they were all acutely aware that time was probably running out.

"He'll be all right," Don said reassuringly. "Don't make it a big deal, all right? I go to the batting cages, you play the piano, Charlie counts. Stress release. That's all it is."

"Really," Lydia said dryly. "Because when Mom needs something, I stop playing. And when was the last time you went to the batting cages?"

Don dodged her question. "All I'm saying is don't read too much into this P thing. If it's a little diversion, maybe that's okay."

"I don't want him to slip away from us," Lydia said.

"Don't be such a drama queen," Don said uncomfortably.

Lydia's eyes were suddenly bright. "A drama queen," she repeated. "Have you looked around? This drama is real, Donny. Dad looks like he's eighty years old. Hell, have you seen Mom?"

Don flushed. He started to turn away when Lydia's hands, stronger than he would have expected, pulled him around to face her. "I'm just saying I think we need to stick together." A tear ran down her face but her tone was firm. "No one understands this, not really, except for you and Charlie, because she's your mother, too. And Dad …" Her voice broke then.

"What about Dad?" Don asked meekly.

"He's really going to need us," Lydia sniffled. "It's not like Mom has another husband that Dad can lean on."

* * *

**August 2003**

Lydia rinsed out her mouth once more and spat. She peered into the mirror and ran a hand through her hair, then grinned wolfishly at herself_. Minty fresh_, she thought.

There was a knock. "You ready?" Don called.

"Yeah, coming." She opened the door to find her older brother in a neat gray suit, his blue tie a nice contrast. A matching handkerchief peeked out of his breast pocket. "Very handsome."

"Thanks." Don looked at Lydia's green skirt and cream-colored blouse. "You don't look so bad yourself."

Lydia had made an appointment at a photographer's for a portrait of herself and her brothers. After almost fifteen years, Margaret was finally going to get the picture she had always wanted for her upcoming birthday.

"Hey, Charlie!" Lydia called. "Let's go, we'll be late!"

There was no answer. Lydia peeked into his bedroom to find her younger brother just standing there. He'd managed to get his suit on, but his collar was open and he was in his stocking feet.

"Let's go," Lydia repeated.

"I – I don't think I can."

"What do you mean, you don't think you can?" Lydia's eyes narrowed.

Don stuck his head in. "Chuck, move it or lose it."

Charlie looked at him pleadingly and Don was catapulted back to high school – after the first few days, there had been stretches where Margaret had to talk Charlie into going. Don knew the look: _please don't make me; it's just too hard today. _

"It's a picture of the Eppes children," Don said, striving for a light tone. "By definition, you have to come."

"Please," Charlie whispered. "I have work … in the garage. I … it's difficult to concentrate … to consider Mom is …"

Don was suddenly struck by how pale and tired he looked. Lydia, however, was too irritated to notice.

"Charles Edward Eppes, you listen to me," Lydia said fiercely. "You most certainly are going. We are all going. We are doing this because Mom will love it, because she's always complaining that she has no pictures of the three of us together, and because this might very well be the last birthday present we get to give her."

Charlie flinched as if Lydia had struck him.

"Find a damn tie and let's go. I'm not fighting with you."

She sounded so stern that Don almost expected Charlie to answer meekly, "yes, ma'am" and hop to it. Instead, he was just shaking his head helplessly.

Lydia flung open his closet door and started throwing ties over her shoulder. One of them struck Charlie in the chest, and he staggered, as if the silk had knocked him backward.

Don stepped between them. "Let me do that," he said quietly. "Wait for us downstairs. We're coming, both of us, I promise."

When Lydia left, Don bent and chose a matching tie from the pile on the floor. He buttoned Charlie's shirt with gentle fingers, then turned him to face the mirror and fastened his tie. Charlie stood there with his eyes closed. When Don finished, he left his arms there, over Charlie's shoulders, resting his hands on his brother's chest. A hug, but not really.

"Do you really want to screw with Lyddie when she's in a mood like that?" he asked.

Charlie shook his head weakly and Don did hug him then, pulling him backward. He bent his head into Charlie's and Charlie's hands crept up to clutch at Don's wrists.

"It's all right," Don said soothingly. Charlie nearly wept at his tone, so like their mother's. "Come on. We'll be with you. Let's go do this for Mom."

"Don … do you think … do you think Lydia's right?" Charlie could barely speak. "Do you think this is Mom's last birthday?"

Don tightened his grip. "Ah, buddy, you know she's right," he said huskily.

He hung on and waited. He completely understood Charlie's resistance. It was easier to pretend that either everything was going to be all right or that it wasn't a big deal.

Everything probably would be all right, he reflected – they would pull together for Alan and, eventually, things would settle into a new version of normal. But it was an exceedingly big deal. Don couldn't imagine the world without his mother in it and thinking too much about made it hard to function.

"I need to take a notebook," Charlie said finally. "I won't bring it in, but I need it. For the ride. And I need shoes."

"Then grab them and let's do it."

Charlie nodded. "Okay. We can do this. Okay."

His automated tone worried his brother, but before Don could think about it further, Lydia was yelling from the bottom of the stairs for them to hurry up.

* * *

It was a beautiful photo. Lydia was sitting with her brothers behind her, Don on the left and Charlie on the right. Charlie's hand was on Lydia's shoulder. They all looked happy and relaxed and their smiles seemed genuine. The photographer had been careful with the lighting and touched up the finished product in PhotoShop -- one would not guess that moments before, Lydia had gone on a small crying jag and Charlie had thrown up in the men's room.

Lydia's prediction was right: Margaret loved the picture. It became her most precious possession. And for the last three months of her life, that photograph was her only view of her youngest child.


	22. Chapter Twenty

_There are some graphic medical moments at the end of this chapter – just so you know. _

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 20  
September 2003**

Margaret decided to stop chemo before her doctors could make the suggestion. It was apparent it was doing little good and the treatment was worse than the illness. Making up her own mind made her feel like she was retaining some small bit of control over her life and she hoped she might feel more like herself as she spent her last days with her family.

She didn't want to die. But nor did she want to live like she was already dead, and those seemed to be her only options.

"I can't believe you agreed to this," Charlie said to Alan, appalled, when he and Margaret told their children. Don leaned forward to hold his mother's hand. Lydia was curled around a sofa pillow, tears running down her face.

"I love your mother too much to disrespect her wishes," Alan said quietly. He reached for his son, but Charlie shook him off and bolted out of the room. A moment later, the back door slammed.

"I need to rest," Margaret whispered. She stood, leaning heavily on Don. "But I want to talk to all of you. I want to talk to you about after."

Alan came to Margaret's other side and supported her weight. "I'll lie down with you," he said tenderly. Don's throat grew tight with unshed tears.

As their parents went slowly up the stairs, Don sat next to Lydia and pulled her into his arms. He pretended he was comforting her but the truth was he badly needed a hug himself.

"I'm all right," Lydia said finally. "I am, this isn't new news, but it's – God, it's going to happen soon."

"I know." Don ran one hand over the top of her head. "I know."

"I don't think I'm ready."

"How do you get ready for this?" Don asked. "We'll never be ready."

He glanced over towards the swinging door. Lydia read his mind and said, "You know he's in the garage. Go see if you can get him to come in."

Don nodded, no longer trusting his ability to speak, and went outside. Charlie was pacing frenetically, a red chalk holder in one hand. His other hand was raking harshly through his hair.

"Charlie?"

There was no answer but Don honestly hadn't expected one. He waited a moment and tried again.

"Can you come back inside? Mom went to take a nap – come hang with Lyddie and me."

His brother completely ignored him. It was like Don wasn't there at all.

"Please, buddy --"

"You need to stop talking," Charlie interrupted. He put down the chalk and picked up an eraser, clearing all the boards. "I have work to do. I may have a workable solution to P vs. NP."

Don furrowed his brow then suddenly remembered his conversation with Lydia. "I thought that was unsolvable."

Charlie shot him a withering look. "Not when I get done with it."

* * *

Margaret slept the better part of the afternoon. It was almost four when Alan came looking for his children. During that time, Lydia had used her nervous energy to make a huge pot of chili. Don had called into the office and after a brief discussion with first Terry, then Merrick, arranged for an extended family leave, effective immediately. Charlie was still in the garage. Alan went out and took one look at him before coming back in, knowing any attempt to wrestle Charlie away from the numbers at this point would be futile. 

_Mom actually looks a little better,_ Don thought as they gathered in his parents' room. _She looks more at peace. _In his heart, he knew that stopping the chemo was not only Margaret's decision to make, it was probably the right one, but it didn't make it any less painful.

"I don't think we should wait for Charlie," Alan said. "He looks quite enmeshed in what he's doing."

"That's all right," Margaret assured him. "It might be better, in some ways." She patted the bed. "Sit, be comfortable. I want to talk with you."

They all piled on the bed with her. Don was seized with a sudden, strong memory of all of them nestled together on a Sunday morning, with Alan reading the paper and he and Lydia coloring and looking at picture books. In his mind's eye, his mother was nursing Charlie, so he must have been five, which would have made Lydia three. A lifetime ago.

"Dad and I went to visit a place last week," Margaret began. "It's called the Village Manor Hospice. The time will come when I'm going to need help, and --"

"Wait," Lydia cut in. "Don't you want to d – be here?"

Alan and Margaret exchanged a long glance. "I've thought a lot about that," Margaret answered. "Please, hear me out."

She waited to be sure she wouldn't be interrupted before she continued. "I don't want you taking care of me. I'd rather have you reading to me and sitting with me and … and being with me. I love this house. I know you all love it, too – and after I'm gone, I don't want you to walk though the living room and think, 'oh, that's where Mom's hospital bed was.' I want you to think, 'that's where I sat and read with Donny' or 'that's where we ganged up to beat Charlie at chess' and 'that's where we listened to Lydia play piano.' Can you understand that? I want your memories to be of me – this illness, this isn't me. My motivations are purely selfish."

Don thought of his mother getting on a plane to move to New Jersey with Charlie and said, "Mom, you are the least selfish person I know."

"It's a nice place," Alan said softly. "We can stay with her 24 hours a day if we want to. And there's nursing staff if we need them."

Lydia nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. If that's what you want, sure, okay."

Another glance between their parents, and then Margaret said, "We also made the arrangements at Cabot and Sons and we bought a plot at Mountain View Cemetery."

"You did that?" Don blurted, surprised. "I would have gone with you."

Alan shook his head firmly. "No, that's not your responsibility," he admonished softly. "And it's not something I'd want any of you to do. We made my arrangements as well – much less for you three to deal with when the time comes."

Margaret smiled. "Let's hope it's a long time, sweetheart," she said to Alan. "I'll just wait and watch over you."

Don's hands started to shake. He stood up and stuffed them in his front pockets. Lydia had her arms wrapped around her legs and had her head sideways on her knees, looking at Margaret. "Selfish, my ass," she said.

"I also want to talk about the services," Margaret said, smiling at her daughter. "I'll leave the wake up to all of you – whatever you choose. For the funeral itself, I've been thinking I might like a rabbi – maybe just to say Kaddish at the cemetery. Something simple."

Don walked to the window, staring at the garage below.

The Eppes family were Reformed Jews, though they'd never really practiced their faith. Don, Lydia and Charlie all knew a smattering of Hebrew, but they hadn't gone to synagogue much and there had been no Bar or Bat Mitzvahs. There was always a menorah for Hanukkah, and Margaret loved Christmas, so there was always a tree as well. Santa Claus had visited until Charlie was seven and proved mathematically there was no way the jolly old elf could deliver toys to every child in the world, flying reindeer or not. (Lydia, who was still holding on to her belief, didn't speak to him for a week.)

Over the last several months, Alan had started talking with Rabbi Thomas Malka at Temple Beth Am. He wasn't sure if he was looking for spiritual guidance or a place to vent his anger -- both at the cancer and a God that would give it to his beloved wife -- but he felt better when he left his appointments.

He looked at his wife. "I can speak to Tom about that," he said. "I'm sure he'll be happy to do whatever we'd like."

"No shiva," Margaret said. She'd been thinking about this at length and her voice was growing a little stronger now that she was finally able to voice her wishes. "I've always hated that. It's morbid, it's too sad and it makes no sense for the four of you to stay in the house and look at each other."

"All right," Lydia said. "No shiva. What else?"

"I love 'Amazing Grace.' I'd like that, I think. Anything else I'll leave up to you."

Lydia began laughing weakly. "Okay, Mom," she said. "A rabbi and a very Christian hymn. Gotcha."

Margaret chuckled with her. Don leaned his forehead against the window. "It's not funny," he whispered, his breath fogging the pane. No one heard him.

"Now. About your brother." Margaret tried to settle more comfortably against the headboard. "Charlie has always been …" Don and Lydia waited for her to say special, but she surprised them by finishing, "… elsewhere. He exists more in his head than the rest of us. His numbers are orderly. They make sense. This cancer is not orderly and it makes no sense. He has a very hard time with things that make no sense."

Don turned toward the bed. "We are all having a hard time with this," he said tightly. "But we're here." He jerked his thumb toward the window. "He's down there."

"He's doing the best he can," Margaret said calmly. "You need to let him get through this in his own way. If he needs to prove P vs. NP, and that helps him, then let him try."

"You know about that?" Lydia questioned.

"He tried to tell me about it a few months back," Margaret answered. "I think the fact that he hasn't let it pull him in before now shows remarkable restraint on his part."

Don shook his head but remained silent.

"When Charlie's being … well, when he's being Charlie, he seems very self-centered. It seems like prime numbers and pi are more important to him than we are. But that's not the case." She looked steadily at Don and Lydia. "Let him deal with this in his own time, in his own way. And when it's over, I want you to promise me you'll look out for him. Take the initiative with him. He's going to need you. He loves you both very much and Don, he looks up to you. He always has. Please let him."

She was clearly waiting for an answer. Finally Don said, sounding almost reluctant, "I promise."

"I promise, too," Lydia added

Margaret smiled in relief. "Thank you. One more thing?"

"What's that?" Don asked.

Margaret smiled, a trace of wickedness in her grin. "Let Dad date. After an appropriate amount of time, of course."

Alan went scarlet – in embarrassment or horror, his children couldn't tell. "Maggie!"

"You feel free to ask him nosy questions," Margaret said, as if Alan hadn't spoken. "Give him as much grief as he gives you."

* * *

**October 2003**

"Don! Donny!"

Don bolted off the couch, automatically reaching for his service weapon before he remembered it was locked in the box in his apartment. Lydia was shrieking and he took the stairs two at a time, skidding into his parents' bedroom.

Alan was on the phone, tersely giving the address to the 911 dispatcher. Lydia was on the bed with Margaret leaning against her. The front of their mother's nightgown was soaked with blood and her eyes were fluttering, as if she was barely holding onto consciousness.

Don's brain kicked into law enforcement mode. "What happened?" he demanded.

"She was coughing." Lydia had a towel in her hand, also soaked with blood. "I came in to see if Dad needed help and when we turned on the light --"

Alan hung up. "The ambulance is on its way."

"Good. Get a blanket around her, she's shaking."

"Should we lie her down?" Lydia asked.

"No, leave her, it's better for her to be sitting." Don didn't see the need to point out it was technically possible, if her lungs were full of blood, for his mother to drown.

"So much blood," Alan whispered.

"It probably looks worse than it is, right?" Lydia asked. "Don? Right?"

"I don't know," he snapped, turning his attention back to his mother. "Mom? Mom, open your eyes for me."

Margaret tried to focus on Don, wheezing.

"Hey, Mom," he said soothingly. "Are you with us now? Can you breathe all right?"

Margaret nodded slowly, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out.

When the paramedics arrived, Don stood back and he and Alan answered their questions while Alan hurriedly packed a bag. Lydia backed out of the room and sprinted down the stairs, through the back door, and out to the garage.

Charlie had his headphones on – he hadn't heard the commotion from the house or the sirens of the ambulance. Lydia ran to him and yanked on his arm.

He jumped and turned, his mouth falling open in terror. Lydia looked like something from a bad slasher movie – her nightshirt was saturated in Margaret's blood and her face was streaked with tears.

"Charlie," she panted, "you have to come. They're taking Mom to the hospital. She's – I don't think she's coming back." She started to sob. "You haven't been inside to see her in almost six weeks, Charlie, please --"

Charlie took a long look at her and then, incredibly, turned back to the blackboard.

"No. No!" Lydia's voice rose in anguish. "You have to come with us, Charlie, please, didn't you hear what I said? Mom's – Charlie, it's bad, it's so bad …"

She was crying too hard to finish. The ambulance wailed out of the driveway and Don appeared in the doorway. He had his keys in one hand and Lydia's shoes and purse in the other. "Dad went with them – they're taking her to Huntington," he said. "If you want to change, do it quick."

She nodded. "Two minutes," she promised. As she passed Don, she whispered urgently, "Make him come with us."

Don put Lydia's things on the old battered desk and crossed to Charlie, pulling off his headphones. He could hear The Talking Heads singing "Once in a Lifetime" before Charlie switched it off.

"Did you hear anything Lydia said?" Don demanded.

"This is not a good time," Charlie murmured.

Don took a giant step backward, afraid if he stayed within reach, he'd punch Charlie right in the face.

"Mom's on her way to the hospital. She was coughing up blood." When Charlie didn't respond, Don emphasized, "A lot of blood. My guess is she'll go from Huntington to the hospice."

"Okay," Charlie said impatiently. "That's – okay. Thanks for telling me." He turned back toward the board. Don stared at him in amazement.

"Charlie!" he barked. "Knock off this bullshit, let's go!"

"You don't have to shout," Charlie said disdainfully. He didn't turn around. Don picked up his sister's stuff and headed out the door just as Lydia was racing back in.

"He's not coming?" Lydia asked incredulously.

"No." Don handed her the shoes and waited while she slipped them on.

"Did you – he has to come!" Lydia insisted, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

"Well, he's not."

Their voices faded down the driveway. Charlie heard them go. He took two quick steps toward the door. If he ran, he could catch them. Then a glittering number seemed to float just beyond his peripheral vision and he wondered if anyone had tried to start with NP, instead of P, and work backward, and if that would somehow make the equation clear.


	23. Chapter TwentyOne

_I don't own Numb3rs. Or the Beatles. _

* * *

**Chapter 21  
November and December, 2003  
**

Margaret spent three days in the ICU at Huntington then another week fighting off pneumonia. She was in the hospital almost two weeks before she was stable enough to be released to the Village Manor Hospice. She had a do-not-resuscitate order and Alan had told the doctors there were to be no heroic measures, so it was a minor sort of miracle she made it to the hospice at all.

_They got her well enough to die,_ Lydia thought, sitting by her mother's bed. They'd been at the facility for two weeks and every day, she saw her mother slipping further away.

Lydia had a copy of "To Kill A Mockingbird" face down in her lap. It was Margaret's favorite book – when she was awake and lucid enough, Lydia read to her about Atticus Finch and Boo Radley. In the front of the book was a piece of paper Lydia had printed from the Internet – the lyrics to "Amazing Grace." She wondered if she'd be able to sing it at the funeral.

"Any change?" Don's voice was low and measured so he wouldn't wake his mother.

"No. She's been sleeping for an hour. Any luck?"

"No," he answered sadly. Don and Lydia were trying to tag-team Charlie into coming into the hospice. "Dad's still there, trying to get him to at least eat, but he won't move away from the boards. He's got books and papers all over the garage – it looks like a bomb went off."

Charlie hadn't seen his mother for nearly three months – not since the day she'd told them she was stopping her treatments. His work on P vs. NP had taken over his life. He was giving his lectures at CalSci, but he was leaving most of the correcting to his teaching assistants and was holding office hours only once a week. That was almost as upsetting as his refusal to see his mother -- Charlie was normally devoted to his students and his school.

When asked what he wanted them to do, Alan told them, "Make sure he eats something, ask him to come, and leave him alone when he says no."

"I can bodily carry him out of there," Don pointed out, but Alan countered that any sort of confrontation would be upsetting to Margaret.

Don vacillated between being irritated with and worried about Charlie. Lydia had no such ambivalence. She was growing more furious with her younger brother by the day.

"Dr. Ballard told Dad he thinks she should be on a morphine drip," Lydia said in a choked voice. "She's hurting all the time." She looked at Don with bright eyes. "Donny, I don't want to lose her, I swear I don't, but this … this isn't right."

"I know." Don had caught himself wishing the whole ordeal would just be over – but that, of course, would mean his mother was gone. It shamed him every time, no matter how normal the thought might have been. "Dr. Ballard's a little surprised she came through the pneumonia, all things considered."

"Yeah." Lydia turned back to the bed. "Do you think maybe she's waiting for Charlie? To say goodbye to him?"

"Be a long wait," Don blurted uncharitably, and then amended, "I don't know. Maybe. She keeps saying that she understands, but how can she not want to see him?"

"Do you think he's holding out, thinking she'll wait?" Lydia asked. "That he can keep her from going?" She couldn't bear to utter the word "die."

"I don't," Don said honestly. "I think it's just like Mom said, before – he's self-centered when he's like this."

"She didn't quite say that," Lydia corrected him. "She said it seems like the numbers are more important than we are."

Don shrugged. "Does it matter? He's not here, is he? The result is still the same."

* * *

Hanukkah was less than a week before Christmas, and Alan had brought both the family menorah and a small tabletop tree to his wife's room. Lydia strung lights all around the window and door and hung her mother's stocking from her IV pole. The room was in sharp contrast to the Eppes home, which was empty and dusty, a shell of the activity that had existed there before Margaret got sick.

There was not much time. There was nothing to do.

Alan came quietly into the room and set down a CD player on the small table. He'd sent Don and Lydia home for the night. He wanted time alone with his wife. As they left, he extracted an assurance that they wouldn't be too hard on Charlie. They both rolled their eyes but he knew they'd heard him.

Alan didn't understand it – Charlie had always been closer to his mother, he'd thought, then either his brother or his sister. But Margaret said she knew how Charlie's mind worked and she knew he loved her, so it was all right. She claimed she had no regrets and while she missed him, she was not sorry about their youngest child's absence.

"Do you know what I'm sorry about?" Margaret had added. "All that stuff I'm going to miss. I'd have been a good grandmother. I wonder if I'd have been an awful mother-in-law, though."

_Never, my love,_ he thought, and leaned over and kissed her. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled weakly. When they were first married, he remembered, she used to kiss him awake for work.

"Hi," she breathed.

"Hi yourself. I sent the kids home so we could have a date."

Her voice was so soft, so faint. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Alan cued up the disc and in a moment, six guitar notes filled the room. Margaret knew the piece instantly -- "In My Life," their wedding song. She struggled to sit up straighter.

Alan sat next to her and pulled her against him, supporting her weight with his body. "I have a secret to tell you," he confessed. "I always thought that when the kids got married, I'd ask them to play this song at the reception so we could dance."

"Mmm." Margaret sighed contentedly. "We had a beautiful wedding."

"We did," Alan agreed. "And you gave me a magnificent marriage." He bent his head to hers, whispering in her ear. "I don't want you to worry, sweetheart. You aren't going to miss anything."

"Alan …"

"Shhh. Close your eyes. Think about Donny. Can you imagine him in his tux on his wedding day? He's waiting for his girl, and, oh, she's beautiful, Maggie, in her white dress, and he's looking at her with a face we've never seen, and it makes me cry, he's so happy. And Lydia is trying on your gown and even though she's not sure she likes it, she wants to wear it because it was yours, and she'll be as lovely as you were. She's got her hair up except for these two little curls, and in the right light, she looks just like you. And Charlie's barefoot on the beach in Santa Monica – his pants rolled up on his shins and all those curls are in his face because he won't get a damn haircut -- can you see them, Maggie? Can you see our babies?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Oh, Alan. Yes."

_But of all these friends and lovers  
There is no one compares with you  
And these memories lose their meaning  
When I think of love as something new  
Though I know I'll never lose affection  
For people and things that went before  
I know I'll often stop and think about them  
In my life I love you more_

"It will be just like that. And we'll feel a touch of a breeze and we'll know you're right there, too." He could feel his wife's hair against his cheek, even though she was still completely bald. He could see the girl he'd married, vibrant and alive, still somewhere inside her. He could feel her great, true love and he could feel his heart slowly rending in two.

"In my life, my Maggie, I've loved you more."

The disc played through twice more before they both fell asleep.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

Margaret hadn't been conscious in three days. Her aunt Irene and Alan's brother Tommy and his wife Becky had come. Terry Lake and Larry Fleinhardt had both stopped by, along with several of Margaret's former colleagues. They all came to say goodbye, though no one really said so.

For the last twenty hours, Alan, Don and Lydia hadn't left Margaret's side. At the beginning of their vigil, Don had tried Charlie every fifteen minutes, calling first the house and then his cell. The cell calls went straight to voice mail and after leaving at least half a dozen messages, Don gave up.

The CD player had been in the room since Alan and Margaret's "date." It had been playing quiet music for the last several hours and was now halfway through "Rubber Soul."

"We talked about naming you Michelle, did we ever tell you that?" Alan asked Lydia as Paul McCartney started singing.

She shook her head. "What changed your mind?"

"Mom wanted us to all have our own initials. We had the boy's name picked out – our second son was always going to be Charles Edward, because Mom's father was Edward Charles – but we went back and forth over the girl's choice. Rachel, Sarah – your mother really liked Deborah – and then you were born, and you just looked like a Lydia." Alan stared out the window, lost in a moment from thirty-one years before. "I don't know why. You just did. You still do."

"What about me?" Don sounded for all the world like he was asking for a bedtime story, too.

"We loved the name Don," Alan answered. "Mom liked the idea of calling her little boy Donny." He stroked Margaret's cheek. His back was starting to ache from perching on the side of the bed but he was loath to move.

Don flushed. "Apparently, so do you," he said.

Alan offered him a small smile. "Neither of us was wild about the name Donald, though. Right before you were born it occurred to us that we were your parents and we could name you anything we wanted – so your name went onto your birth certificate as Don Alan."

He remembered the conversation as pivotal and frightening. He could see Margaret sitting at the table in their old apartment in Glendale, her hands over her swollen belly, when they were both besieged with the realization that in a few short weeks, they would be responsible for a human life. Margaret had been twenty-six, Alan twenty-nine, but it had still seemed like they were far too young.

Alan was overwhelmed with love when he held his first child – an emotion that was overpowering in its profundity. Watching Don and Lydia sitting together at the foot of Margaret's bed, he suddenly recognized that feeling had never entirely gone away.

"We raised wonderful children, Maggie," he whispered to her.

Tears sprang into Lydia's eyes. She leaned back against Don and he slipped his arm around her. _Damn you, Charlie, where are you?_ she thought, but of course she knew. Charlie was twelve miles away in his garage, lost in the numbers.

At one in the morning, Margaret simply stopped breathing. She slipped away so quietly it took her family a minute to see she had gone. Alan laid his head down on his wife's chest and wept. His children had never seen him so distraught and Lydia went to her father's side immediately, sobbing herself. A moment later, Don wrapped his strong arms around the two of them.

They stayed like that for almost fifteen minutes before alerting the nursing staff.

* * *

_A/N: Don's full name is Don, not Donald – according to Cheryl Heuton on FanRush and Television Without Pity. I made up the middle name. _


	24. Chapter Twenty Two

_Thanks so much for continuing to read this. I have to also thank Charmed Mummy, who continues to beta this and has had some very good ideas and insights._

* * *

**Chapter 22  
January 4, 2004**

It was three in the morning before Don, Lydia and Alan got back to Pasadena. The lights in the garage were blazing and they all stopped on the driveway for a moment, looking at the bright windows.

"I'll go," Don said finally, taking a step in that direction.

Lydia reached for his hand. "Do you want me to go with you?"

Alan cleared his throat. "We'll all go," he said, in a voice of quiet authority.

Charlie was sitting on the couch with his cell phone in his hand. Don's voice, choked with emotion and tinny and distorted through the small speaker, came into the garage.

"Charlie, if you don't get your ass over here it's going to be too late. I'll come get you if you want. Please, buddy, call me back."

Charlie hit '1' again and replayed the message. He'd been sitting on the couch for almost an hour, listening to it over and over again.

"Charlie."

It took Charlie a moment to realize his brother's voice was coming from behind him, not in his hand. He turned to look at them, saw the expression on his father's face, and turned back to the cell phone.

"Charlie, if you don't get your ass over here …"

"Charlie," Don tried again. He was speaking over the sound of his own recorded voice. _When I left that message Mom was still alive,_he thought, and he couldn't say anything else. He turned away from his family and bent his head. His fists were stuffed in his front pockets and he was breathing raggedly.

Alan walked over to the couch and sat beside his youngest son. "Mom's gone," he said simply. "A couple of hours ago."

Charlie started shaking. He was trembling so hard his cell phone fell to the floor, cracking the casing. "I … didn't check the messages," he stuttered.

"Would you have come?" Lydia's voice was like a shot from the corner of the garage. "Really, Charlie, what difference would it have made? We've been coming out here and leaving you messages for weeks."

"Lyddie, hush," Alan said firmly. Don shook his head imperceptibly at her and mouthed _Not now._

Alan wrapped his arms around Charlie. Charlie sank into his father's embrace, still shaking violently, and began to weep. Don's eyes filled and he reached blindly for Lydia. "Too little, too late,"she whispered into Don's chest. He tightened his grip on her and murmured, "Maybe so. But not now."

"Come inside." Alan's voice was soft and soothing. He stood, pulling Charlie up with him. He led him out of the garage. Don and Lydia, their arms still entwined, followed.

When they got into the house, Lydia went to the china closet. She pulled out four wine glasses and half a bottle of Napa Valley Chardonnay, Margaret's favorite, and poured them each a mouthful.

"If I drink that, I'm going to fall right over," Don said.

Alan handed out the glasses. "That's all right. We can all use the sleep. We have a rough couple of days ahead of us."

Lydia raised her glass. "To the best mom ever."

"The best," Charlie echoed, tears running down his face all over again.

Don nodded, joining his glass to the circle.

"To my beloved Maggie," Alan finished, and they drank to her memory.

* * *

Though most of Margaret's arrangements had been made the previous fall, there were still some particulars to sort out. Lydia helped Alan choose clothes to send to the funeral home and then ordered food from the local deli to feed those coming back after the funeral. Don called his aunts and uncle, Margaret's colleagues and their friends and neighbors. Charlie, after sleeping six hours in his own bed, wandered back out to the garage, and his family was too tired and sad to argue with him about it.

It was well after lunch before Don took his cell phone and walked down the driveway, hitting speed dial on the way.

"Lake."

"Terry, it's Don."

"Hi," she said in surprise. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I wanted to let you know my mother died early this morning."

Terry didn't bother to point out the oxymoron in his sentences. "Oh, Don. I really liked your mother. She was a great lady. What a shame."

Don blinked back sudden tears. Terry was the first person who hadn't said "I'm sorry" and then blabbered on and on about how it was a blessing that Margaret was in a better place.

"Have you made the arrangements?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah. The wake is tomorrow from five to eight at Cabot and Sons, and then there'll be a graveside service Tuesday at Mountain View Cemetery. Ten o'clock."

"We'll be there," Terry assured him. "I'll tell David and Merrick. Is there anyone else you'd like me to call?"

"No. But if you're on a case --"

"Don." Terry's voice was firm. "We're coming. Don't be an ass."

He snorted in spite of himself. "Everyone keeps telling me she's better off," he revealed slowly.

"Maybe that's true," Terry said carefully. "But I wouldn't imagine it would make you – or your dad or Charlie and Lydia – feel any better right about now."

"Nope."

There was companionable silence for a moment. "I guess I'll be back soon," Don finally said. "Next week, maybe."

"Take your time. We're keeping your seat warm," Terry said easily. "You know that arrogant James Williams, from the DEA? He was in here helping with a case and he wanted to set up shop at your desk. Sinclair threatened to shoot him."

Don could hear the rookie protesting good-naturedly in the background. "He did not."

"No. But it's a funny visual, isn't it?" Her voice grew serious. "Anything you need, Don. You or your family -- really, anything. You have my numbers and you know where I live."

* * *

On Monday morning, Lydia was sitting at the table wearing Margaret's old robe and reading the newspaper when Don came down the stairs. There was a pot of coffee and a plate of donuts on the table in front of her.

Don came up behind her. She was looking at the obituaries.

"Is it in there?" he asked quietly, resting a hand on his sister's shoulder.

She pointed. "It's even correct, right down to our middle initials." She rubbed her eyes. "Is Dad still asleep?"

"Yeah." Don helped himself to a cup of coffee from the pot on the table.

"That's probably a good thing."

He nodded. "Have you seen Charlie?"

She gestured toward the garage. "He's out there. I went out, but he's not budging." Tears started to fill her eyes. "He says … he says he's not going tonight."

Don's face grew stony.

"When he came in last night, I thought we had him back. I mean, after the fact, really, after it would have been helpful to Mom, but at least he was back. But now … he says he's on the verge of a breakthrough."

"He is going to his mother's wake," Don said through clenched teeth. "If I have to pick him up and carry him there, he is going."

"Good luck with that," Lydia said quietly. "You know how he gets." She sniffled. "Dad was okay when he wouldn't visit Mom, but that's only because Mom said she was okay with it. This will break his heart."

"He's going," Don repeated. He leaned over Lydia to get a donut and stopped short, his nostrils flaring.

She wiped her cheek on the shoulder of the robe and said, "It still smells like Mom."

Don looked at his sister for a long moment, then picked up her mug to sniff it. Lydia took it out of his hand and took a long swallow of coffee and brandy.

"It's eight o'clock in the morning," Don pointed out in disbelief.

"Just a little something to take the edge off," Lydia said. "Half a shot. My hands were shaking like crazy – it's been a long few days."

"Lyddie --"

"You want me to walk a straight line? Do a breathalyzer or something? Do I look drunk and disorderly to you?" When Don shook his head, she finished, "Then not today. We don't need to fight about this today."

* * *

Charlie's fervor for his numbers, while sometimes obsessive and misguided, was true and unbiased. He had worked through his family's events his whole life – he had no control over what equation would consume him and his compulsion led him to forgo everything else, even eating and sleeping. These impulses grew worse under anxiety and he had learned there was nothing to do but turn up the music and wait for the solution to come or the fixation to pass.

His mother understood this. The rest of his family did not.

And so it was that Charlie worked through his mother's wake. Don threatened to physically dress him and then cuff him to his SUV's door handle; he might have done it had Alan not laid a gently restraining hand on his arm. Lydia was too incensed to speak. Alan looked so bewildered and hurt that Charlie finally conceded he would try to take a break and come for the last hour.

In the end, they left without him because they had to. If Charlie had been thinking clearly, he might have told himself it was better this way – it would be worse to be distracted and better to avoid a scene that would upset his father more.

But he wasn't thinking clearly. Grief, shock and mathematics had combined to give him tunnel vision, and at the end of that tunnel was the solution to P vs. NP.

As the wake was ending at a little after eight, Larry Fleinhardt pulled Don aside and said quietly, "Charles' absence is conspicuous. Does he intend to circumvent the funeral as well?"

"I don't know," Don said. He looked over at Alan. He was standing at the head of Margaret's closed coffin, one hand resting on the casket as if he were still able to touch his wife. The top was covered with flowers and pictures, including the latest one of her three children, and a photo of a healthy, laughing Margaret, the way they all wanted to remember her. He didn't look like he would be ready to leave any time soon. "I think that might kill my father."

"Perhaps I can reason with him," Larry offered.

"He's home in the garage. Be my guest."

Larry nodded thoughtfully, tugging on his ear, and left the room. Lydia sidled up to Don. "Uncle Tommy and Aunt Becky want to take us to dinner," she said.

"Okay."

"You doing all right?"

"All right," Don allowed. "You?"

"About the same. A little worried about Dad."

"Yeah."

"I was going to ask Larry if he wanted to come – where'd he go?"

"He went to try to talk some sense into Charlie." Tommy was quietly guiding Alan away from the coffin and Don watched them, troubled. "I sure as hell hope he has some luck."

* * *

Larry's car was not at the Eppes' home when the family returned. Becky, Tommy and Margaret's Aunt Irene had gone back to their hotel. Alan kissed Lydia goodnight and squeezed Don's hand, hard, then retreated into his bedroom, saying he wanted to be alone.

Don took a long hot shower, trying to ease the ache out of his muscles. When he finished, he wandered downstairs. Lydia was curled up on a corner of the couch, a glass of wine next to her, flipping through the channels.

"Classic baseball is on," she greeted him. "McGwire beating the Roger Maris record. Back when we didn't think he was a cheat."

Don sank down next to her. "I'm so tired," he mumbled, trying hard not to sound like he was whining. He'd been on cases that had lasted far longer than the last four days – during which he hadn't slept beyond catnaps – but this exhaustion was emotional as well and it felt like it had settled in his bones.

Lydia pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and covered her brother with it. "What happens now?" she asked softly. "Will you stay in LA?"

"Where else would I go?"

"I don't know. DC, maybe. To see if Kim's still there."

"She's there. She's got a boyfriend."

"How do you know that?"

"Word gets around. The federal government, especially its law enforcement community, is smaller than you might think."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. It's been done for a long time."

"I'm glad you moved home," she said abruptly, her eyes still on the TV. "I really missed you."

It was said so quietly Don wasn't sure he heard it. He glanced over and Lydia was taking a deep swallow of her wine, as if it were water. The bottle stood on the end table. He was fairly certain it had been full before they'd left for the wake.

Don curled up on his side, his head against Lydia's lap. "You drink too much, Lyddie," he yawned.

"You worry too much, Donny," she answered. She stroked his hair, putting him to sleep in less than five minutes. Neither of them noticed Charlie standing in the doorway.


	25. Chapter Twenty Three

_I am not Jewish, so my interpretation of Margaret's funeral comes from Web research and a friend. Any mistakes are mine and I would be happy to correct them. I don't wish to inadvertently offend anyone._

_I don't own Numb3rs nor do I own the words to Amazing Grace, written two centuries ago by John Newton. Be aware there is profanity in this chapter. I hope it's not too long for you – I didn't want to split the day._

* * *

**Chapter 23  
January 6, 2004  
**

Alan stood at the mirror in his bedroom. Even to himself, he looked older, as if he had aged rapidly in the last few months. Nothing had looked, felt or tasted the same since Sunday. Though Margaret hadn't been home in several weeks, there had been an imperceptible but significant shift since she actually died. It was as if the universe knew she was no longer part of the material world and everything had modified itself accordingly. For the worse.

His shoulders sagged and he didn't try to stop the tears that welled in his eyes. There was no one there to see them. She had left him.

_I didn't leave you, Alan,_ Margaret's voice came into his head, scolding him gently. _For goodness' sake. _

_Sure as hell feels like it, Maggie. I don't know how I'm supposed to do this without you. _

With a deep sigh, Alan opened Margaret's jewelry box. Her engagement and wedding rings sat inside. They had stayed on her left hand for thirty-five years and when she'd gone into the hospice, she handed them to him and said, "hold on to these for Lyddie, if she wants them, all right?"

He slipped them into his left pants pocket.

"Hey, Dad?" Lydia came in behind him. "Did you eat anything? Can I get you something?"

"No, thank you, sweetheart, I'm fine."

She didn't bother to contradict him. "Mrs. MacNichol said she'd come and wait for the food delivery. It should be all set when we get back."

"Good. The limo will be here in a half hour." Alan fumbled for a tissue and blew his nose. "Wait, I just thought of something. Do you have any bobby pins?"

"I think so. I'll go look."

Lydia found a package in her top drawer and stepped back into the hallway. She could hear the shower running. As she walked past Don's room, he startled her by opening the door, buttoning the cuffs on his dress shirt.

She jerked a thumb toward the bathroom. "I thought you were in there."

"I thought it was you."

Her eyes widened. "Wow. What did Larry say to him?"

"I don't know. And I don't care." He looked at the cardboard in Lydia's hand. "Whatcha got there?"

"Bobby pins. For the yarmulkes. Will you bring some? I don't have any pockets and people might need them at the cemetery."

Don held out his hand. "Sure."

Lydia disappeared downstairs. Don stuck his head into Charlie's room. It was in its typical disorganized chaotic state but the covers were pulled up on the bed and Charlie's good black suit was laid out. His yarmulke sat to one side. Don pulled three bobby pins off the cardboard and set them on top of it, then left to check on his father.

A few moments later, Charlie came in, toweling his hair dry. He didn't want to go. He'd worked almost all night, trying desperately to finish before the funeral, but the solution to P vs. NP was still just beyond his grasp. He didn't realize he'd completely missed the wake until Larry appeared.

Larry had waited until Charlie paused his frenzied writing before saying quietly, "Charles, you must attend the services tomorrow. Your mother knew you were devoted to her, but in this wretched time, I believe it's critical the rest of your family perceive that as well."

_Wretched_. That was a good word for it.

Charlie dressed quickly and pinned the yarmulke to his curls. He wasn't completely dim-witted. He knew, even before Larry had come, that he couldn't miss the funeral. He also knew part of his reluctance was that he did not want to acknowledge his mother was gone.

But it was going to be difficult. The numbers were dancing.

* * *

_They look like the Mafia_, Lydia thought as she stood in the cemetery with her father and brothers. Alan and Charlie were both wearing black. Don was in charcoal gray and the three of them were wearing sunglasses.

Lydia was running through "Amazing Grace" in her head. She was wearing a modest navy blue dress, the nicest piece of clothing she owned. At the last minute, she'd tied one of Margaret's purple scarves around her throat.

It didn't quite match. She couldn't have cared less.

Alan was flanked by his sons. He had his right arm tight around Charlie, who was staring disconsolately at the coffin, sniffling, trying to listen to the rabbi. Charlie had used his origami skills to fashion a piece of black paper into a torn ribbon, the traditional Jewish ritual of K'riah, and fastened it to his left lapel.

Alan's left hand was in his pocket, running his fingers over the smooth gold of Margaret's wedding band. He clacked it silently against his own ring, the way they used to click together when Margaret was spooned behind him in their bed, with her arm over his waist and his hand atop hers.

_Maggie, I cannot do this,_ he thought, but of course he was doing it anyway. He had no choice.

Don stood straight and tall, his demeanor belying the knot in his stomach. He badly wanted a piece of gum. Or a beer. When he checked his watch for the fourth time in two minutes, Lydia put her hand gently on his wrist.

Behind the family, people stood six and seven deep. Margaret had been well-loved and would be well-missed.

Rabbi Malka led the mourners in the Kaddish Prayer. When it ended, he gave the family a slight nod. Lydia took a deep breath and moved two steps forward.

_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound  
That saved a wretch like me  
I once was lost but now am found  
Was blind, but now, I see_

She felt her voice warble and stretched back her right hand. A moment later, Don's fingers closed around it. Lydia lifted her head to the sun, closed her eyes and sang to her mother, clear and true.

_'Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear  
And Grace, my fears relieved  
How precious did that Grace appear  
The hour I first believed ..._

_... Yes, when this heart and flesh shall fail,  
And mortal life shall cease  
I shall possess within the veil  
A life of joy and peace_

_When we've been there ten thousand years  
Bright shining as the sun  
We've no less days to sing God's praise  
Than when we've first begun_

* * *

The food and alcohol flowed freely for the rest of the afternoon. Alan tried to play host but neither his guests nor his children would let him. He spent a good deal of time talking quietly with Terry Lake and David Sinclair.

"If there's anything we can do for any of you, please let us know," Terry said. "We take care of each other – and not just in the field. That includes Don's family."

Alan was both moved by her words and grateful his son had such support.

Don was talking to his cousins Thomas and Kristina, whom he hadn't seen it at least a decade. Lydia had abandoned her heels and was refilling glasses and tossing paper plates in her stocking feet. It took them a little while to realize Charlie was no longer in the house.

Lydia took a tray of dirty glasses to the kitchen and peered out the back door. The sound of music came faintly from the garage.

"Lydia, dear."

Lydia turned. "Aunt Irene. How are you doing? Can I get you anything?"

Margaret had been an only child and her parents had both died when she was in her early twenties, even before she met Alan. Irene and Margaret had always been close and Margaret had looked at her as a sort of surrogate mother.

"No, dear, I'm fine. Just still in a bit of shock."

"I know," Lydia said soothingly.

Irene patted Lydia's hand. "You have a lovely voice, dear. Of course, you must know that song is … well …"

"Christian?" Lydia interrupted. "Yes, I know. Mom asked for it."

"Oh, well, Margaret was always a little unconventional in her choices. Including her choice of your father." Irene sighed. "I'm mostly worried about poor Charlie, though."

Lydia had been refilling a water pitcher, only half-listening to her great-aunt, but Irene's words made her whirl so abruptly the liquid sloshed onto the counter. "Charlie?" she repeated dumbly.

"I've never seen such a close bond between a mother and child," Irene replied. "I know Margaret was devoted to that boy. I hope you and Donny are kind to him. I'm sure it will be difficult for him to deal with losing his mother. "

Lydia felt her mouth fall open. _She was our mother, too, _she wanted to say, but she found the ability to speak had left her.

"I was just telling your uncle – Timmy, is it? – how much pride Margaret took in Charlie and his special abilities. It was certainly fortunate that Charlie was living here when she took sick. I'm sure he brought her much comfort in her final days."

Lydia burst into laughter, a raw hysterical sound that made Irene back up a step. Before the older woman could react, Lydia choked out, "Please excuse me" and bolted for the garage.

She slammed the door open and shut off the CD player, cutting off Brad Yoder in mid-lyric. "You need to come inside."

Lydia's tone left no room for argument and she didn't wait for Charlie to respond. She crossed the room and stepped in front of him, so she was between him and the blackboard. "I'm talking to you. You need to come back inside. We have a houseful of people in there – some of them are your friends, your students – you belong in there."

"I need to finish this," Charlie said. He was trying to look around his sister at the equation he'd been calculating. "I'll come in later."

"It's already later! You've been out here for three hours!"

"No, it hasn't … has it? That can't be right."

The utter puzzlement on Charlie's face snapped the last shred of sympathy Lydia might have had for him. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away from the blackboard.

"After all she did for you," she hissed. "She gave up everything for you! Her career, her husband – my God, me and Donny! And you can't be bothered to spend an afternoon away from your numbers in her honor? How can you be so fucking selfish? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I ... I'm almost there, I think," he said faintly, backing away from her.

"Almost where? Everything is not numbers, Charlie. People are flesh and bone and blood and laughter and tears – and they live and they die. And your mother died, She's dead. And you couldn't get your self-centered head out of your ass long enough to say goodbye."

"I … I told you," he stammered, "I didn't check the phone – I meant to check --"

"You should have answered the phone! You should have been there!" Lydia was screaming. She moved toward him. Charlie was cringing a few feet away, feeling guilty and a little frightened of his sister's tirade. "It was three months! You didn't even call her – that's how you show her how much she meant to you? That's how you repay her for taking care of you? She was still taking care of you! Were you cooking? Cleaning? Doing your own laundry?"

The color had started to go out of Charlie's face.

"You may be a genius on paper, but you're still a spoiled brat," Lydia spat. "I don't think you're eccentric or driven. I think you're crazy. Just because you're brilliant doesn't mean you don't have to act like a decent human being."

"I'm. Not. Crazy." Charlie spoke through clenched teeth.

"No?" she gestured. "This isn't crazy? Because you look completely insane. You're covered in chalk, before this morning you hadn't showered in days, and Dad was sitting with his dying wife worrying about whether or not you were getting enough to eat! You're twenty-eight years old! How can you not see that's not normal?"

Charlie said nothing.

"I left my job and my apartment to help take care of her. Don left his whole life in New Mexico. Dad retired. What did you do? I'll tell you what you did. You did nothing. You let her die without saying goodbye to her or telling her you loved her. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Charlie stood straighter and looked Lydia in the eye. She was starting to slur her words and her sanctimony was angering him. _Who does she think she is? _The seed of truth in her words raised his voice.

"Don't you stand there and act like you gave up your life for her," he shot back. "You were about to get evicted anyway – I heard Dad say so. You're a waitress. It's not like you were doing anything important. I'm selfish? All that time we didn't know if you were dead or alive? All that money Mom and Dad spent on college so you could drop out? Stop pretending you're so altruistic."

Lydia didn't answer. Charlie paused a moment then started to clarify, "I mean --"

"I know what it means," she interrupted. "I'm not stupid. I'm smart enough that I didn't lock myself in the garage trying to figure out an impossible problem, when there was a real problem in the house."

"This work could change the face of mathematics," Charlie retorted. "Mom understood that. You have no idea what it's like to commit yourself to something and see it through. What happened to your music, Lyddie? You're a quitter."

"You never had to work at anything you loved, like my music, or Donny's baseball," she snapped. "All you love is numbers and those are just there for you. It's like … it's like a cheat."

"I know why you stopped playing," Charlie blurted before he could stop himself. "It's all the drinking. Did you think we didn't notice that? How much wine have you had today, when you're – what did you say – when you're supposed to honoring Mom? I should be ashamed? I don't act my age? What the hell are you doing in college bars? Are you really so naïve you think no one talks? How do you suppose it feels to hear your students call your sister a whore?"

Lydia's face was white. She turned on her heel and in two steps, reached the blackboard and picked up an eraser.

Charlie charged at her, pushing her away. Lydia's feet tangled up in each other and she tripped.

"Whoa! Shit!" Don came in just in time to see Lydia fall. "We can hear you yelling all the way in the house. It's upsetting Dad -- what the hell are you doing?"

Lydia pushed herself to her feet. She looked wild, every inch the crazy person she accused Charlie of being – her hair was a mess, her stockings were ripped and she was covered in chalk dust from hitting the floor.

She looked at the blackboard and tossed the eraser to the ground. "Maybe someday you can explain this to your stupid, quitter, whore-of-a-sister," she said coldly. "I'd like to understand how this was more important than our mother."

She left before either of her brothers could say a word. Charlie fell to his knees, hyperventilating, the fight in him gone as rapidly as it had come. Don watched her go and after a moment crouched next to his little brother. He was afraid Charlie was going to pass out and so Don put his hand on the back of Charlie's head and bent it forward.

"Easy, Charlie," he said, craning his neck to try to see out the door.

"Oh my God, oh my God," he babbled. "What did we -- Lyddie – where did she go?"

"It's okay. Let her calm down. It's been a bad day."

"A bad day," Charlie repeated. "That's quite an understatement, Don."

He tried to get up and crumbled. Don put his arms around him and comforted him as best he could. Lydia sat by the koi pond, dangling her feet into the water. The fish nibbled at her toes as she hardened herself to the sound of Charlie's heart breaking.


	26. Chapter Twenty Four

_It's been brought to my attention (thank you Charmed Mummy) that David was not introduced to the team until the pilot episode, not when Don came back from Albuquerque. I'm going to leave it, though, just because I like the idea of David fiercely guarding Don's desk from the arrogant DEA agent while Don was on family leave._

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 24  
Still January 6, 2004  
**

Most of the mourners had left. Becky was doing the dishes; Tommy had driven Irene back to her hotel. It had been almost an hour since Don went out to the garage to see what the shouting was about and he and Charlie had not yet emerged. Lydia was still sitting by the koi pond.

"They should be together," Alan muttered. "They should be together, in here, with us."

"Easy to say, Alan," Becky said gently. "It's an awful thing to lose a parent. You remember."

"I remember," Alan acknowledged as he opened the back door. "And it makes me wish I was kinder to my mother when my father died."

Alan stopped next to Lydia. She didn't meet his eyes, just kept letting the fish play with her toes. Alan opened his mouth to speak when his sons came out from the garage.

Charlie was trembling and tearful. Don had one arm tight around his shoulders and he looked a little unsteady himself. He glowered at his sister, glaring at her in a way Alan had never seen before. Lydia, however, recognized the expression on his face – it was the same way he'd looked at her when she'd shown up at Quantico and he'd been so angry he'd shaken her.

"What happened in there?" Alan asked firmly. For a moment, he was catapulted twenty years into the past, refereeing some random argument between two of the children.

"I was working," Charlie began, "and Lyddie said …" His voice trailed off and he looked at his sister. "She said …"

It seemed he was waiting for someone else to fill in the blank. Lydia pulled her feet out of the water. "I didn't say anything that wasn't true," she said, quietly but clearly. "Stop trying to tattle to Dad. We're both adults."

"Dad." Don gave Charlie a gentle push in Alan's direction. "Take Charlie inside, all right?"

Alan looked at his children, from one to the other to the other, and nodded tightly. He led Charlie into the house, murmuring comfort to him.

Don dropped heavily on the bench next to Lydia. He was fuming. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "We had an argument. I thought he should come inside. That's all."

Her nonchalance made Don want to slap her. "I heard most of that, you know." He had been standing in stunned shock outside the door, unable to move until Lydia fell. "He's not crazy. And it's not fair to act like he's not missing her too."

"You're kidding me, right?" Lydia asked in disbelief. "Did you hear him call me a whore?"

"I heard you both call each other a lot of things," Don said noncommittally. "And I have to tell you, your timing and delivery suck."

Lydia looked over at him and was astonished at the look still on his face. "Are you mad at me?" she asked incredulously.

He stood up, pacing in front of her. "We buried Mom today," he said, his voice catching. "We could hear you yelling in the house. How could you do that to Dad? He was upset and he was … he was embarrassed. Today, of all days, when he shouldn't have had anything more hurt him."

Lydia was shaking her head in disbelief. "So, what, you suddenly think it was all right? That he just hid out the last three months? You were there – you were trying to get him to come see Mom too!"

"I know that --"

"Then how can you stand there and take his side?"

"It's not about sides," Don snapped. "You should have left him alone. You should have let him add and subtract and come in when he was ready."

"How can you say that?" she gasped.

"Because we promised Mom!" Don cried. "I don't understand it either, and yeah, I think he was wrong, but it doesn't matter what I think. Mom said to let him be, and I promised her." He looked at her pointedly. "We promised her."

"Listen to me." Lydia's voice was low and a little desperate. She stood up and put her hands on Don's arm, swallowing hard. "I didn't mean to upset Dad – you know I didn't – but if Charlie had stayed inside where he belonged, none of this would have happened."

"Everything is not always someone else's fault," Don said tersely. "If you had stayed inside where you belonged, it wouldn't have happened either." Tears glinted in his eyes but he set his jaw and refused to let them fall. He jerked away from her. "When did you get so goddamned mean, Lydia?"

Lydia stood up and went into the house without saying another word.

* * *

**March 2004**

There was tension in the house the likes of which the family had never seen before. It was even worse than in those weeks after Margaret had stopped her chemotherapy.

Alan was in Don's room. He'd slept in there a couple of nights; being alone in the bed he'd shared with his wife for more than thirty years was sometimes difficult. Don had retreated to the relative calm of his apartment two days after Margaret's funeral, the apprehension between Charlie and Lydia palpable and uncomfortable. It was worse than any fight they'd ever had as children – but then again, they hadn't really lived together for twenty years. There was a lot of water under that bridge.

The one blessing Margaret's illness had brought Alan was that all his children were together under the same roof. Those days had been filled with much sadness but on many levels, they had also been filled with much close support, and Alan was comforted to see Don, Lydia and Charlie taking care of each other.

He ran a hand over Don's quilt and thought of his son's third night back from Albuquerque.

_It was almost midnight. Margaret was sleeping and Alan walked down the hallway, thinking he'd see if there was any cake left from dinner, when he heard low voices. Don's door was ajar and he peeked inside. Don and Lydia were sitting cross-legged on the bed, drinking beer and playing cards. Charlie was sprawled across the foot of it, sound asleep. As Alan watched, he twitched in his sleep and gave a low moan. His fingers reached out and curled around his sister's ankle, as if she were some sort of teddy bear. _

_Lydia winced but she didn't move. _

"_He's going to cut off your circulation," Don said. _

"_He's fine." _

_Don leaned over, presumably to move Charlie's hand, when Lydia stopped him. Don looked at her quizzically. _

"_He has nightmares," Lydia explained. _

"_He's always had nightmares." As a child, Charlie sometimes woke the whole house screaming in his sleep. The pediatrician's theory was that there was so much going on in his brain it was hard for it to shut off. Alan and Margaret were told he'd grow out of it; Don assumed he had. _

"_Do you remember when we came to visit you in Stockton?" Lydia asked. Don nodded. "We shared a motel room. He woke me up in the middle of the night moaning in his sleep. He wouldn't tell me what he was dreaming about. Then he was up for the day and it was like three in the morning. I think it's worse since Mom's been sick." She put her hand gently on top of Charlie's. "So if he wants to do that and it means he can sleep, that's all right. I'll move him when I go to bed." She grinned at Don and set her cards down. "Oh, and gin." _

_Don swore softly and threw down his hand. "How did you do that?" _

"_You're not the only one Charlie taught to count cards," she said wickedly. _

"_All right, all right, Little Miss Cheater." Don snatched up the cards and started to shuffle. "One more hand, no numbers." _

Alan had faded quietly out of sight before they noticed him, marveling that even with his wife gravely ill, his family was still all right.

"Hey, Dad? Anyone home?" Don's voice rang up the stairs. Alan hurried to the head of them as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.

"Just me, Donny," he answered as he descended.

Don looked at his father's tired and worn face and thought with a jolt, _He looks old_. He followed him into the living room and sat on the couch while Alan took the armchair.

"Where is everyone?"

"Your brother is at school and your sister is looking for a job."

Don nodded thoughtfully. "They talking yet?"

"Not yet," Alan said sadly. The three of them had refused to tell Alan what the argument was about, and if it was bad enough that they weren't speaking, Alan wasn't sure he wanted to know. And to be honest, it was worse than silence. They were avoiding each other entirely. Alan thought one of them would offer some sort of half-hearted apology that would bridge the gap, but he was still waiting.

"I don't think they've been in the same room since the funeral," Alan said. "I'm getting pretty worried about Lydia. She's never here – she's gone half the night more often than not. I have no idea where she's going."

_Sleeping with boys from CalSci_, Don thought ruefully, though that was hardly the thing to say to one's father. "She's fine, Dad," he said, a little lamely. "She's an adult."

Alan sighed. "It's been almost two months, Donny, I don't suppose you could --"

"No." Don's voice was quiet but firm. "They have to work it out themselves."

"What if they don't?"

"I don't know. But I'm not getting in the middle of it."

On one hand, Don had been pretty furious with Charlie, too, and he had to concede that a lot of what Lydia shouted was true. But on the other hand, Margaret, who had known her youngest child better than anyone, had asked them to be patient with Charlie, and they had promised her. That, in Don's mind, made Lydia wrong, no matter how right she was.

There was also the matter of Charlie's accusations, which were probably truer than Don was willing to know. The further out of it he stayed, the better.

Before Alan could say anything further, Don said, "I was looking for Charlie. I was hoping he could help us with this wire fraud case. We've got money disappearing. It's going through Western Union but they aren't initiating it, and it's mostly illegal immigrants who are affected, so you can imagine they're thrilled to see us coming. I'll be damned if we can figure out where it's going. I was thinking maybe Charlie could help us trace it."

"It would be wonderful to see you boys working together."

"Well, don't get too excited," Don said. "I have no intention of learning the Fibonacci Sequence and I can't see Chuck carrying a gun."

Charlie was an exceptional mathematician; when Terry had suggested bringing him in, Don had agreed immediately. Maybe it would be a chance for them to start over, to figure out how to be brothers without their mother around.

"Charlie's stopped working on that equation but he's spending a lot of time at Cal Sci," Alan said. "I'm not sure he's sleeping or eating very well."

"Ah, he'll be all right, Dad," Don said. He tried to sound reassuring and failed miserably.

Alan looked at him skeptically, annoyed that even in the wake of his mother's death, Don was pushing down his emotions. But he was wrong – Don wasn't being flippant; he just wasn't surprised. He'd seen it over and over again during his years in the Bureau – hell, he did it himself – people used whatever coping mechanism worked for them, and when the crisis passed, the adrenaline wore off and they crashed.

Alan sighed again but then, to Don's surprise, a slight twinkle came into his eye. "Of course, there's an additional variable," he said. "A lovely doctoral student named Amita something-or-other. Charlie is her thesis advisor. He seems fairly taken with her, though he won't say."

"He's probably not allowed to date her."

"And if Terry isn't going to reconcile with her husband --"

"Dad." Don had to laugh. "I'm glad you're feeling better enough to give me a hard time, I guess, but come on."

"Just trying to focus on something, that's all." Alan took a deep breath. "Listen, son, you said – after your mother – are you still available to help me clear out her closet?"

Don clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Sure, of course."

"Maybe in a few weeks," Alan ventured, but Don was encouraged he'd brought it up at all. "Most of it can go to Goodwill, I suppose, unless your sister wants some of it. And I'd like to save a few mementos for future grandchildren."

Inside, Don winced. Every time Alan brought up grandchildren, he thought of Lydia's abortion and hoped his father wasn't too vocal around his sister.

* * *

**April 2004**

It was like every move she'd ever made. Lydia packed up her old car with whatever would fit and improvised when she got to where she was going.

"You don't have to go," Alan said for the third time. He was trying to keep the desperate note out of his voice and he didn't say what he was really thinking: _Not now, so soon after your mother._

"Yeah, I do, Dad." Lydia shoved a trash bag full of shoes into the trunk. "It's not good for either of us for me to live here." She glanced pointedly toward the garage, where Charlie was working. "I'm too old to live at home."

"We've all fit fine over the last several months," Alan pointed out.

"Not really," Lydia contradicted.

Alan folded his arms across his chest. "I think you should make things right with your brother."

"Things are as right with him as they're going to be right now," she said. "And he's not going anywhere. I think looking after one of us is probably enough."

"No one is choosing Charlie over you," Alan said abruptly.

"I didn't say you were."

But it was exactly what she was saying, and they both knew it. She'd first said it to Don when they were in high school, over old Elton John songs in the band room, and nothing had really happened in the last twenty or so years to convince her otherwise.

Lydia had thought, somehow, that telling Charlie exactly how she felt would make her feel better. It had done the opposite. She couldn't get his wounded eyes out of her mind and things between her and Don hadn't been the same since. She was restless – she was having trouble finding work and even her music was eluding her. Time for a change of scenery.

"Dad, honestly, I'm not going much further than Santa Monica," Lydia said soothingly. "I loved living there. I'll find a place near the beach. You have my cell number and I promise I'll call when I find an apartment."

"Most people find the apartment before they move," Alan said.

"Where's the adventure in that?" she asked lightly. "This way, anything can happen."

Alan kissed her goodbye with a frown on his face. _That is exactly what I'm worried about_, he thought.

* * *

_Coming up next ... canon. TBC_


	27. Chapter Twenty Five

_Numb3rs began, we all know, in January 2005, so that's where canon starts. I don't imagine Don et al really solve only one case a week on a Friday, so I'll be a little liberal with the timeline, but things still happen in the order they did on TV. This chapter takes place early in Season One, and you can assume that anything from this point forward will contain spoilers. If I do this right, you'll recognize right where we are. _

* * *

**Chapter 25  
February 2005**

Crime is never pretty, but Don found sexual assaults particularly awful, and he was relieved to finish the paperwork on Roland Haldane, the serial rapist who had assaulted, branded and killed thirteen women.

"Don?" Terry stood by his desk and pulled on her jacket. "I'm heading home."

"Yeah, that's fine. I'm about out of here myself. Did Merrick tell you to stay home tomorrow?"

"Yeah." Terry rubbed her eyes. "It'll be nice to have a day off. Unless, of course, some whacko does something illegal." She grinned sideways at Don. "You'll have to ask Charlie what the chances of that are."

Don leaned back in his chair. "He did all right, huh?" he said thoughtfully.

"All right?" Terry echoed. "Who knows how many lives he helped us save?"

It had been a hard case, and it had been a hard sell to let Charlie help them when there were no financials involved. But Charlie always insisted everything was numbers and he had created an algorithm to determine the rapist's point of origin. Initially, it hadn't appeared to work but a revised equation led them right to Haldane – who, it turned out, had just moved from Charlie's original hot zone. Though David Sinclair sustained a nasty hand wound, they'd also rescued a hostage. Haldane had been killed in the confrontation and though Don always wished fatal shots were unnecessary, he couldn't help but be glad the rapist was off the street.

"Merrick wants us to pick up those robberies when we're back on Thursday," Don said. "The Charm School Boys, the papers are calling them, because they're so polite." He ran one hand through his hair. "You know, maybe Charlie could help us with that – I mean, sixteen banks in eight months, and they don't show any sign of stopping."

"You think he can figure out where they'll strike next?"

"I don't know, it's worth a shot, I guess." He stood up and toggled his mouse to switch the computer off. "We don't have much else."

* * *

Don walked into his father's house, glancing through the mail on the table inside the door. Every now and then something showed up for him – of course, it was mostly junk.

"Hi there," Alan greeted him from his seat in the living room. "What brings you by?"

"We wrapped up that case today."

"Yeah, Charlie said."

Don smirked at his father. "I was kind of hoping you'd feed me."

Alan pointed at the table, which was already set with three places. Don felt a small pang. He had just gotten used to not having a chair for his mother when Lydia had moved out and it made him unreasonably sad to see another empty place – even though he had his own apartment and by rights had no say in dinner settings, or anything else.

But Don knew if he had voiced that to his father, Alan would have known exactly what he meant. In the first weeks after Don went to college and Margaret and Charlie moved east, putting down plates for just himself and Lydia had made Alan miserable.

"You want a beer?" Alan asked. When Don nodded, he settled back into his chair and picked up the newspaper. "Good. Bring me one, too."

Don resisted an urge to stick his tongue out at Alan and headed into the kitchen.

"Pretty boy," said the parrot in the corner.

"Taxidermy," Don mumbled under his breath. The bird was a recent addition and, as far as Don was concerned, had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Don harbored a hope that one day he'd come to visit and the bird would just be gone.

He paused with one hand on the refrigerator door. True to her word, when Lydia found an apartment in Santa Monica, she'd called with the address and phone number. Alan had it magneted to the fridge; he'd confided in Don that he hoped Charlie might see it there and take it upon himself to call his sister. The scrap of paper had been there for eight months and as far as Don knew, his siblings still weren't speaking. Lydia was drifting away again – Don had only spoken to her twice. It reminded him uncomfortably of those years she'd been entirely incommunicado.

Don had been thinking of Lydia a lot lately, especially during this last case. As he had stood in the doorway of the garage the previous winter, listening to Charlie screech at Lydia that she was drunk and promiscuous, all the pieces had fallen into place for Don. There had been an audible click and he wondered how he could do so well at solving crimes and so poorly at figuring out his sister. Whenever he reported to a crime scene involving a female victim in her thirties, he steeled himself for the possibility that he'd pull back the medical examiner's black bag and see his sister's face staring up at him.

He'd never told anyone that, not even Terry. It sometimes woke him up in the middle of the night.

Charlie came through the backdoor and stopped at the sink to wash the chalk off his fingers. Don finally opened the fridge. "Beer?"

"No, thanks." Charlie stared out the back window. "You know – that was kind of a scary moment today."

"Coming on scene, you mean?" Don asked, trying to keep an even tone in his voice. Charlie had arrived at the crime scene, thinking he might glean more data for his algorithm, but the incident was already over. Don had shown him Haldane's car, bearing a resident sticker from his previous address, which showed Charlie's math had been spot on after all.

"Actually, no." Charlie gave a short laugh. "I figured if you were there with me I was pretty safe."

Before Don could process that, Charlie continued. "I meant the moment when the numbers didn't work. They always work. It would seriously screw with the universe if they suddenly didn't."

Don looked at him, startled. Charlie shut off the water and dried his hands with a paper towel, his eyes still outside. Don wondered what patterns he was looking at.

"Donny, where's my beer?" Alan called.

"Donny, where's my beer?" the parrot mocked.

"God." Don shook his head as he walked toward the swinging door. "I still can't believe he bought a bird."

"He's lonely," Charlie said quietly. "He was married for all those years; he's used to a companion."

"He's replacing Mom with a bird?" Don joked and was dismayed to see Charlie's whole face shut down.

"Mom cannot be replaced, period. Ever."

"Ah, Charlie, you know that's not what I meant, come on --" but his brother was already gone, out the door into the yard.

Don didn't wait to see if he was headed back to the garage. He took a long pull on his beer. Dammit. Even when he was trying, really trying, sometimes it just didn't work.

* * *

**March 2005**

Lydia's head felt as if it were full of broken glass. Any movement – no, any thought –jarred the shards into her brain. Even breathing was painful. She was cold, except for a small spot of warmth on her right forearm. Eventually, she cracked her eyes opened and saw the spot of warmth was Don's hand.

"Lyddie." He was on his feet instantly. "You with me?"

His whisper echoed in her head. Her eyes focused on the bandage on his left arm and the darkness swallowed her again.

Don leaned back in the uncomfortable orange chair, scrubbing his hand over his face. It had been a hell of a day. Charlie had agreed to help them predict where the Charm School Boys were going to strike next and while his equation had been right on the money, the stakeout had gone incredibly wrong. One agent was dead and Don had been winged by a bullet. Charlie was convinced it was his fault. Don had tried to reason with him and talk him into trying another approach, but the last he'd seen of him, Charlie had been scribbling frantically in the garage. He had retreated back into his numbers and was mumbling about P vs. NP, with Larry outside nervously contemplating the koi.

The team had assembled in the War Room, trying to force a lead out of their information for the umpteenth time. Just after nine, the LAPD called to tell Don his sister had been drinking, rammed her little Datsun into an oak tree, and was on her way to UCLA Medical Center. He'd raced to the hospital with his flashing blue lights on – the first time he'd ever used them for a personal reason.

She'd been incredibly lucky. She had been wearing her seat belt and her injuries consisted mostly of bruised ribs and a black-and-blue stripe across her left breast. There was a nasty bump on the left side of her head where it had hit the side window, but that was all. When the attending told him Lydia hadn't broken any bones and didn't appear to have internal injuries, Don had asked him to repeat himself.

Yeah, he reflected, a bitch of a day. He sighed and stole a glance at his watch. Eleven-twenty. Hell, a lot more could go wrong in forty minutes.

"Sir?" A nurse came into the room, holding a purse. "This came in with her – it was on the bottom of the stretcher."

"Thanks."

The nurse came over and checked Lydia's IV, then laid a hand on her wrist to take her pulse.

"She opened her eyes for a second," Don offered. "I'm not sure she actually saw me, though."

"The IV will dilute the alcohol some, but she's probably still a little drunk." She flipped open Lydia's chart and scanned it. "Ring for me if she wakes up for real and she's complaining of pain. We can check her blood -- we can't give her anything until her level goes down."

Don nodded. When the nurse left, he idly opened Lydia's purse, mostly because it was sitting in his lap and he had nothing else to do. There wasn't much there – her wallet, a comb and some lipstick, miscellaneous pens, her cell phone, a couple of hair elastics and a nip bottle. Don took it out and slipped it into his pocket.

He opened her wallet. Among the bills was a scrap of paper that looked like one of Charlie's equations, though it was clearly Lydia's writing. He flipped the photo section open and his breath caught. There were only two. The first was of a young, laughing Margaret and the other was his Stockton Rangers baseball card.

Don looked back at the bed, at his sister's face, gaunt and bruised, and he tried to breathe deeply around the lump in his throat. _Dammit, Lyddie. What the hell are you doing to yourself?

* * *

_

"Don?"

It was a whisper, but it woke him instantly. He didn't even realize he'd fallen asleep. He squinted at his watch and was surprised to see it was three in the morning.

"Hey," he answered quietly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like there are little trolls inside my head, drilling for oil." She gestured; her purse was still in Don's lap. "You tryin' to steal my last ten bucks?"

"Twelve," he corrected. "You're richer than you thought."

She tried to smile. "What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Don countered.

She stared at him intently. Her eyes filled with tears. "Shot," she choked out.

"How many shots?"

"No. You." She pointed at the bandage. "I saw – Channel 8 said there was a robbery in progress, federal agents shot. I thought I saw you. Your phone went to voice mail. And Dad didn't answer and I thought … I thought maybe …"

"Lydia, look at me." Don took her hand, his voice gentle but firm. "I'm fine. It was a graze. It was no big thing. But this – you, here – this is a big thing."

"I don't know what happened," she whispered. "Amy bought me a drink and then I thought I should be with Dad, you know? And here I am."

"It must have been more than one drink. You drove your car into a tree. The car behind you called 911."

"Donny?" Lydia's voice was very small. "Is that why you're here? Am I arrested?"

Despite the knot in his stomach, a slight smile came to Don's face. "We leave DUIs to the police," he said. "And no, you're not arrested. The first cop at the scene was Frank Bellows – remember him?"

Her brow furrowed. "Frankie's a cop?"

"Yeah. He remembered I was with the Bureau and called me. Since you didn't hurt anyone but the tree, and it's a first offense, he said he'd cut you a break. But you have to pay for the tree."

Don thought of Charlie that morning, pacing in the garage, too freaked out by the shootout at the bank to do anything but calculate.

_Statistically, you're dead now. You understand what that means? A man pointed a gun at your head and fired. The fact that you survived is an anomaly and it is unlikely that it will be the outcome of a second such encounter._

Don had thought Charlie was just being … well, Charlie, until he'd gotten the call from the LAPD. Now he understood – if Lydia had started drinking when she saw the news report, she'd been drinking for four hours before getting into her car and promptly driving into the tree. She hadn't even gone a half mile. Frank Bellows had told Don her blood alcohol level was more than twice the legal limit. She hadn't hit anyone else and she wasn't so badly injured -- what would be the outcome of a second such encounter?

"I want you to know something," Don said decisively. "I didn't ask Frank to fix this – it was his idea. I told him to throw you in jail next time."

She nodded and winced as the movement sent pain shooting through her head.

"You once asked me to learn how to duck. You said you liked having a big brother."

"You remember that," she said hoarsely.

"Of course I remember that," Don replied, a little impatiently. His voice grew stern. "My point is I like having a little sister, too, so you have to knock this shit off, Lyddie. It's going to kill you. Or someone else. All right?"

"Don't … don't yell at me," she whimpered.

"I'm not yelling. It just sounds like I'm yelling because you're full of tequila." Don looked at her intently. "Promise me."

"Promise," she murmured.

Don immediately softened. "I have to go back to the office," he said. "I'll come back later and we'll get you home."

"Don't call Dad."

"I won't." He put his hand on top of his sister's head and rubbed his thumb gently on her forehead, a gesture he remembered his mother doing when they were small. "Go back to sleep."

She closed her eyes obediently.

Don really had no way of knowing, but Lydia kept her promise. She never got into her car after drinking again. She just stayed wherever she passed out.


	28. Chapter Twenty Six

**Chapter 26  
May 2005  
**

_Don was on edge. He didn't generally get nervous in the field – that had stopped early on – but he had sharp instincts and he'd learned to trust them. Snipers were tricky, and this particular case, according to Charlie's calculations, had more than one – a sniper zero and a copycat. _

_Fortunately, Don thought, they had a secret weapon in Special Agent Ian Edgerton. He taught marksmanship at __Quantico and was one of the best. Don believed he and his team were a little safer with Edgerton hidden somewhere above them, but something still felt hinky and the FBI blazoned across the back of his jacket felt like a bull's eye._

_He was about to ask Terry if Sinclair had called in yet when he saw a familiar curly head. Don's sixth sense went into overdrive. _

_"Charlie! Get down!" _

_His brother looked up, puzzled, and said, "What?" and then his chest exploded in a spray of red._

Don woke, choking back a scream, clawing at his t-shirt, certain it was soaked in his brother's blood.

He reached over and turned on his bedside lamp, then pulled his knees to his chest and rested his hands in front of him. They were shaking. They'd been shaking the week before when he'd hauled Charlie into a sitting position and seen he was in one piece. He'd rested his forehead briefly on his brother's hair, smelling the sweat and the fear and the hair gel and life there, as Charlie babbled something about working on probabilities of where the sniper might have been.

The first part of his nightmare had really happened. He'd had a bad feeling all morning, and he had been too far away when he saw Charlie wandering around the deserted street. He had never been so frightened in all his life, in that moment when he heard the shot and saw Charlie fall, not understanding until a half minute later that David had tackled him to safety.

After Don had taken Charlie home, he'd gone back to the office, intending to rip Sinclair a new one for bringing his brother to an active scene. But when he saw David's face all the might-have-beens rushed at him, and all he could say was, "Thanks, man."

Don took a deep breath and got out of bed, wringing his hands together as if he could rub the trembling away. He padded to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Things with Charlie were good, he reflected. They were actually better than good – they were arguably the best they'd ever been. A part of Don would always feel a little inferior to Charlie, and a part of Charlie would always try to impress Don, but it seemed to matter less. They'd come to a place where they trusted and forgave each other and really were brothers.

There had been a time when Charlie had been on the very periphery of Don's life. Don hadn't quite realized how true that was until Kim Hall, his former-fiancée, had been in town a few months before with a counterfeit case. Though no one had known they were engaged, Charlie hadn't even known they'd lived together.

Lydia had, though. Don could still remember her saying, "You're shacking up, huh? Is she the one?"

He'd missed that sort of easy, faithful relationship. He'd always had that with Lydia, and now, he and Charlie were coming to a similar point.

_You miss her, _he thought as the cool water soothed his tight throat._ Even though she's allegedly less than an hour away. _

Don wasn't sure if he missed Lydia herself, or who his sister used to be. Even now, more than a year later, he had a hard time reconciling the woman who drank brandy at eight in the morning and screamed at Charlie in the garage with the little sister who sang so sweetly and played him to sleep while he tried to wrap his brain around the fact that he'd actually killed someone.

He shuddered, visions of the sniper and Charlie's close call back in his head.

Before he could change his mind, Don went into the bedroom and retrieved his cell phone. He almost hoped Lydia didn't answer – it was two in the morning; she should be asleep with the phone turned off. He formulated a message in his head: _Hey, it's me, sorry it's so late. Just called to say hi. _Maybe even _Call me soon, I miss you _or _I love you, I worry about you. _Somehow, it was easier to be sentimental late at night and via voice mail.

Don was taken aback at the automated voice which picked up: _The cellular number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again. _

He did. It was still disconnected.

"Son of a bitch, not again," he mumbled out loud, an uneasy pit growing in his stomach.

* * *

**July 2005 **

"Agent Eppes!"

Don turned toward David Sinclair, wondering not for the first time when the younger man was just going to start calling him "Don" on a consistent basis. "Yes, Agent Sinclair," he said pointedly.

David grinned, taking the hint. " Merrick wants to introduce us to the new members of the team."

"Good. They're here just in time to help with those heists." Don's job was always demanding, but it had become even more so since Terry Lake had transferred to Washington. Their latest case involved a series of jewelry store robberies. Charlie had helped them determine the money was being used to fund terrorist activities and Don was waiting for his brother's estimate on the thieves' next target. Between that and their other cases, Don and David had been working 19-hour days.

"Eppes, Sinclair." Walt Merrick strode toward them, two people in tow. "These are your new team members – Special Agent Megan Reeves and Special Agent Colby Granger."

They shook hands all around. Reeves was a psychological profiler whose last assignment had been with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Granger was ex-military, having done _a_ tour of duty with the Army's Criminal Investigation Division. Los Angeles was his first FBI assignment; he'd been at the top of his class at Quantico and had three years of training in interrogation techniques.

"Director Merrick filled us in on the jewel case," Megan said with a warm smile. "I have some ideas on how to narrow the search." She quickly outlined her profile of the suspects – her theory was that they were petty criminals who felt they'd been wronged by the government and believed funding terrorists was a good way to get even.

She handed Don a folder. "I cross-checked the stores that were hit with the LAPD and government databases. I came up with nine names."

"Good work," Don said admiringly. Granger looked a little green – the rookie had been on the job less than an hour and was already feeling a little behind the eight-ball.

"Don't worry," Megan said reassuringly, "you'll catch up."

Don noticed Charlie hurrying toward them. "Hey, I might have come up with your guy," he greeted them. He handed Don a sheet of paper. "This man, Gabriel Scacro, has connections to all the robberies – and some of his associates were questioned in connection with September 11."

"He was on my list," Megan said. "And you are …?"

"Sorry." Charlie offered her a hand. "Dr. Charles Eppes."

"Charlie consults with us sometimes," Don explained, his eyes scanning Charlie's notes. "This guy's got a connection to Al-qaeda? Are you kidding me? How the hell did you figure that out?"

"The money blueprint Al-qaeda uses is very specific," Charlie said. "It goes through a number of channels to avoid detection and has several end points, filtered into multiple funding accounts. The very complexity of the effort to be random and careful creates a pattern in and of itself."

_What the hell have I gotten myself into?_ Granger thought dismally.

Don nodded, completely missing the despair on his rookie's face, a small smile playing on his lips. "Excellent. Between the two of you, we might even get lunch today," he said. "Let's go pay Mr. Scacro a visit."

They missed lunch, but by 6:30, Scacro was in holding and had been frightened into giving up every member of his cell he knew. It turned out Granger was a scary bad cop, and paired with David's good cop persona, they were a hell of a team. An hour later the new team was sitting at Grendel's Pub sharing pitchers of beer and plates of nachos and potato skins.

"Your brother did some fancy figuring," Megan said, helping herself to another chip.

"Yeah, he's something," Don admitted. "He can look at a police report and see patterns and make connections and he's invariably right. But he can't balance a checkbook."

"How long do you have to study to be able to do that?" Colby mused. "I barely passed calculus."

"Charlie was probably doing calculus in diapers," David laughed. He looked at Don. "He could always do this kind of stuff, right? I remember your dad saying something about that."

"Child prodigy," Don confirmed. " Princeton at 13, CalSci at 16." There was a tone in his voice they couldn't read. "We graduated high school together and I'm five years older."

"Is it just the two of you?" Megan asked casually.

"No," Don said shortly. "There's a sister between us."

"Yeah," David said conversationally, "How is Lydia?"

Don took a deep swallow of his beer. "That's a hell of a question," he replied. "I have no idea."

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, David decided he'd never comment on either of Don's siblings again.

* * *

**August 2005 **

Don opened the car door for Nadine and waited while she got in so he could close it behind her.

"Check it out," she teased. "We go off the clock and you become a true gentleman."

Don grinned at her as he started his SUV. Nadine Hodges was a federal prosecutor and they'd been sharing a mutual flirtation for months. The timing had never been quite right – for a time, Nadine had been seeing someone and Don had harbored some hope that he and Terry might pick up where they left off.

Now, with Nadine unattached and Terry transferred to Washington to try to reconcile with her ex-husband, they'd agreed to go on a couple of dates and see what happened. It was a quick lunch in the middle of a Tuesday, but it was a start.

Nadine had suggested a little diner she knew in West Hollywood ("because somehow, Agent Eppes, you look the meatloaf type") and the only words in the car were her softly spoken directions. They were off to a good start, Don reflected, if they could be comfortably quiet from the beginning.

"There." Nadine pointed to a parking space directly in front of the diner. "Good omen, huh?"

"I hope so," Don answered. Nadine blushed.

The place was small and crowded and the food smelled amazing. A waitress waved them over to the one vacant booth and called to them, "Menus are in the napkin holder; we'll be right with you."

Nadine and Don made themselves comfortable. "So, are you the meatloaf type?" Don asked, studying the daily specials.

"They make something called Fiesta Soup," Nadine replied. "I get it every time I come here. Long on cilantro and cumin."

"Hi there, can I get you folks something to drink?"

"Diet Coke, please," Nadine said easily. "Don?"

Don sat frozen by his sister's voice. Lydia realized too late that she was about to take her brother's order, and as he opened his mouth to say her name she shot him a look that clamped it shut. "Just water," he managed.

He watched her walk away, trying to gauge her health and her mood from her stride. Lydia went behind the counter to get their beverages, talking frantically over her shoulder to another waitress. The second woman was shaking her head, clearly annoyed.

"Don?" Nadine sounded a bit impatient. "Is something wrong?"

"Um, no. I just --"

His voice trailed off. Nadine looked at him for a moment, then slid out of the booth. "I'm going to use the ladies' room," she said quietly, glancing in Lydia's direction.

They passed as Lydia returned with the drinks. "Do you know what you want, or do you need a minute?" she asked.

"She wants the Fiesta Soup, or whatever it is," Don said. "I'll take a BLT."

Lydia scribbled and then, to Don's utter shock, started to walk away.

"Wait – wait a minute. You're not really going to do this, are you?" Don pleaded in a low voice. "Bring me a sandwich and pretend you don't know me? Why would you do that?" He knew he sounded a little like he was begging, but he thought of his father and didn't care. "Lyddie, come on, talk to me."

There was a heavy, awkward silence.

"Look, I can't trade tables, we're too busy," she finally said. "I'm sorry. I know this is a little weird. Just eat and go, okay?"

"Not okay," Don said, his temper beginning to flare. "Not even close to okay."

"I don't want to get into this now," she hissed, with a quick glance over her shoulder.

"Get into what?"

"This … you know, just … Donny, I can't do this. I just can't."

She started to walk away and Don's hand shot out and closed around her wrist. Lydia gave a little gasp. "Dad's fine, nice of you to ask," he snapped. "He kind of started dating, nothing serious. And Charlie --"

"Charlie hates me," she interrupted. "And you and Dad have been mad at me since Mom died. Don't sit there and pretend we're like the Brady Bunch or something."

Despite his fury, Don couldn't help but be moved by the torment in his sister's eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nadine coming back, and Don let Lydia go.

"Get your damn phone turned on," he said roughly. "Or at the very least, call your father. This place must have a phone somewhere, right?"

Lydia walked away with a snort. Don scrubbed a hand over his face.

"What's all that about?" Nadine slid back into the booth.

"Nothing," Don said testily. "I ordered you that soup -- was that all right?"

"Sure, fine." Nadine glanced from Don to Lydia and back again. _Old flame? One night stand? She doesn't look your type. _"Don?"

He forced himself to look at her. "Sorry. Was it all right to order you the soup?"

Nadine's smile faded and Don knew unless he offered some sort of explanation, this relationship was going to be over before it began. But he couldn't bring himself to elaborate. It was a long story and there were parts he couldn't answer for himself, never mind for Nadine. Don liked Nadine and he was attracted to her, but he didn't know her well enough to start airing all his family issues at the lunch table.

Instead, just to be saying something, he asked, "Do you have a solid case against Scacro?"

He avoided Lydia's eyes when she came back with their food. He pretended not to notice the way Nadine was scrutinizing her and concentrated on forcing his sandwich past the lump in his throat.

When they'd finished eating, Don reached for his wallet, but Nadine stopped him.

"I'll expense it," she said coldly, "since it turned into a business lunch."

Don waited while she signed the credit card slip and then he handed her his car keys. "I'll leave the tip," he said. "Why don't you --"

Nadine was gone before he could finish his sentence. He fished a business card out of his wallet and circled his office number and e-mail, then scrawled on the back: _My apt.: 312-555-7087, my cell: 562-555-9165, Dad's cell: 626-555-7127, Charlie's cell: 626-555-2397. Please._

Don left the card and all the cash in his wallet, more than fifty dollars, under the salt shaker.

* * *

On his way home the next evening, Don swung by the diner. The owner told him Lydia had quit at the end of her shift the day before. Don flashed his badge and talked the man into giving him Lydia's address, but when he got to the apartment complex she'd listed, no one there had seen or heard of her. The "Unit F" written on her job application didn't exist. 

He found himself driving toward Pasadena on autopilot. His father was at his book club meeting but Charlie was home, and Don helped himself to a beer and stretched out on the old couch in the garage, watching his brother fill his boards with numbers.

"You need help with a case?" Charlie asked.

"Nah. Just came to say hello."

"Really? Because you're not saying anything."

Don shrugged, picking absently at the label on his beer bottle. "You can't tell Dad," he said finally.

Charlie put down his chalk and sat next to his brother. "Okay. Then I won't."

Don sighed. "I saw Lydia."

" Lydia – our Lydia?" Charlie exclaimed. "You're kidding me! Where?"

"Waiting tables at a restaurant in West Hollywood," Don said miserably. He outlined his uncomfortable lunch with Nadine and explained he'd just been to Lydia's last known address, which was probably not her address at all.

Charlie leaned back against the couch cushions. "You know, you could find her. All those connections you have. You could put a lookout on her, or something."

"So could you," Don pointed out. "You consult with the NSA, for God's sake. You could call in some favors."

"I doubt she'd welcome a call from me," Charlie said. "What's your excuse?"

"She doesn't seem to want us," Don said simply, surprised at how much the words hurt his heart. "And it's funny you say that, because she thinks you hate her."

Charlie nodded thoughtfully. "Donny," he said softly, and the use of the nickname made Don lean toward him. "Do you think this is my fault?"

"No, buddy, of course not. Why would it be?"

Charlie avoided Don's gaze, his eyes suddenly bright. "It was a bad fight," he said. "It was a mean fight. But Lydia's points were not entirely without merit."

Don settled back silently. He didn't even try to contradict his brother. Charlie was right and there was nothing he could say.

* * *

_A/N: I hope the length of this chapter makes up for the delay. Thanks for sticking with me – I haven't been updating as frequently as I'd like. Real life is busy and then I ran into a posting snafu. The next chapter is right behind this and we're on the home stretch. _

_A shout-out to Charmed Mummy for her help with my writer's block. Thanks, B. _


	29. Chapter Twenty Seven

_Disclaimer: Not only do I not own Numb3rs, there is a scene in here taken directly from "Dark Matter." The concept and dialogue for that section were written by Don McGill. This chapter contains profanity, a little worse than usual. _

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 27  
March 2006  
**

"Can you play another one?"

Don snatched his fingers from the piano keys, startled, as if he'd been caught doing something forbidden. His mother's original composition, "Etude in G Minor," was open before him. Charlie had found it in a box in the garage – none of them had known Margaret wrote music. Don had sat down to try to pick out the melody and before he knew it, had gone through it twice.

"Can you play another one?" Alan repeated.

"I don't know if I'd call it playing," Don hedged. "Fooling around, I guess. I wanted to see what I remembered – I wanted to …"

"You wanted to hear your mother. Her music." Alan sighed. "Keep going, Donny, while I get dinner out of the oven. There's probably sheet music in the bench. We haven't had enough music in this house since – well, since we don't have any women around anymore."

Alan turned and abruptly went back through the swinging door. Charlie had been coming in from the other side and Alan's sudden departure nearly knocked him over. He looked over at his brother almost longingly.

"What, you were listening too?" Don asked irritably.

Charlie snorted. "Yeah, sorry, I'll start working on the Cone of Silence."

Don offered him a small smile. "It's a nice piece," he said.

"It was nice to hear it," Charlie replied. "Don't you remember how good that felt – to be doing whatever you were doing, while Mom or Lyddie played something? To just have the music in the background?"

"It felt like home," Don said quietly. "This is still home, but it's …"

"Evolved," Charlie supplied.

"Yeah. Something like that, I suppose."

"Boys, wash up, dinner's almost ready," Alan called from the kitchen.

Don rose and followed Charlie into the bathroom. "I don't know what's worse," he groused as he and Charlie jostled for the sink. "The fact that he tosses these orders at us like we're still kids, or the fact that we just get up and do it."

"He's been holding on a little tighter. You know why? Residual Lydia." Charlie leaned over Don to lather up his hands. "Another one came today. That always makes it a little worse."

Lydia had started sending Alan postcards the fall before, shortly after Don ran into her in West Hollywood. They were mostly quick scrawls saying she was fine, but the latest had a new twist, Charlie told Don: she mentioned her brothers.

"It's on the table?" Don asked. Alan's habit was to prop it against the napkin holder and leave it there until the new one arrived. He dried his hands and went into the dining room. The card showed a shot of the Hollywood sign. The back read: _Hi Dad, all's well, don't worry. I was just thinking of you. Hug Donny and Charlie, I miss you all. L._

"Has she called?" Don asked softly, so his father wouldn't overhear.

"I don't think so. But this -- " Charlie pointed at his name in their sister's writing. "He thinks this might be a good sign. I kind of hope he's right."

**

* * *

**

**October 2006**

Don was browsing through the paper, reading about the school shooting case they'd just finished, when Charlie came in.

Charlie shook his head at him. "You don't get enough of that?"

"What can I say? I like to see how they spin it."

Charlie sat down on the sofa, thinking about the young people who had been murdered – teenagers who left for school and just never came home. "Do you think anyone really knows how any of this stuff happens?" he asked.

"Definitely not," Don sighed.

"I know when I was in high school I was so … angst-ridden," Charlie remembered.

"You didn't shoot anyone," Don pointed out.

"No, but there were days when I wanted to do serious damage …" Charlie met his brother's eyes. "… to you."

"To me?" Don said in surprise. "Hey, buddy, take your best shot. Here, I'll make it easy for you."

He slid to the floor, jabbing playfully at his brother. After some good-natured jostling – with Don fending Charlie off from his knees – Charlie agreed to grab a pizza with Don, seeing that his big brother was paying and all. They'd just arrived home and were settled at the dining room table with a deck of cards when Don's cell rang.

The brothers groaned in unison and Don answered it curtly, then snapped it closed. "I gotta go," he said, genuinely disappointed. "That was Megan – a church blew up in Culver City."

"Let me know if you need help," Charlie called after him.

Don drove to the scene quickly and expertly. _First high school kids murdering each other, now people bombing churches, what the hell is next? _He felt very old.

The parking lot of St. Boniface Church was littered with emergency vehicles but there didn't appear to be a lot of carnage. Don spotted Megan talking with a uniformed officer and she waved him over.

"What do we have?" he asked.

"The bomb squad says it looks like a simple pipe bomb," Megan answered. "Easy to make, common ingredients, but with enough explosives to take out a small building."

Don looked at what was left of the structure. "Like a church."

"Well, like this church, anyway. Thankfully, something went wrong with the timer – it was supposed to go off during services tomorrow morning. As it is, we only have two vics."

"Hurt?"

"Not badly. There was a man, Daniel Michaels – he was taken to the hospital, but it looks like he's going to be all right. The flying debris broke his arm."

"We'll want to talk to him. Let's send someone over to get his statement as soon as he's done. What about the second victim?"

"A woman – not a scratch on her. She's over there with Granger. But Don --" Megan took a deep breath. "She says her name is Lydia Eppes."

Don's head snapped up. _She turns up in the damnedest places,_ he thought. He fought for a moment to keep his professional persona intact and then Megan laid a kind hand on his arm.

"Why are you standing here with me?" she chided him gently, and he bolted, shoving Colby rudely out of the way. He scooped Lydia into his arms so quickly she didn't realize who it was until he spoke.

"Lyddie, what the fuck," came unbidden out of his mouth.

Her arms tightened around him. "Classy," she murmured. "Bet that gets you lots of dates."

Don had to bite back a harsh laugh before it turned into a sob.

"Boss?" Colby said tentatively.

"She's my sister," Don explained. He pushed her away and looked at her intently. She looked a little different, but she looked good -- her hair was lighter, a soft honey color, and she'd gained a little weight. It suited her. "You're all right? You didn't get hurt?"

Lydia shook her head and pulled Don back into a tight embrace, listening to his heart ricochet against his rib cage. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

Don dropped his head into his hands. He was beyond delighted to see Lydia – and to find her seemingly so well – but he'd forgotten how infuriatingly stubborn she could be.

He mumbled something under his breath to that effect and scowled as Megan and Colby exchanged a glance and fought back laughter.

"What?" he snapped.

"An Eppes? Stubborn?" Colby questioned. "Yeah, I'd say that particular ship sailed a long time ago."

Don glanced into the monitor. Lydia was in the interrogation room, talking quietly to David. She'd told her story several times but still hadn't revealed what she'd been doing at the church in the first place.

Lydia looked over at the camera; it appeared she was looking right at him. "Tell my brother that unless I'm arrested, I'd like to go over to the hospital and see how Daniel is," she said pointedly.

"Son of a bitch," Don mumbled. He hoisted himself out of the chair and went back into the room.

"Hey, Donny, are you the bad cop now?" Lydia greeted him.

He sighed heavily and motioned David out of the room without looking at him, so he wouldn't have to see him snickering.

"Once more, with feeling," he said to Lydia.

Her deep sigh matched his own. "I got there around 7:15. Daniel's car was in the lot. No one else's. He was waiting for me. I didn't see anyone, didn't hear anything, didn't notice anything, everything was fine. We went inside and about twenty minutes later, I went into the ladies' room. I was washing my hands when I heard the explosion."

"And you went back into the room – the big hall."

"Yes. The whole side of the building was gone. I could hear Daniel yelling and I found him and we went outside. I called 911 from my cell phone, but the dispatcher said the police were already on the way."

"How did you get in?"

"I told you, I had a key."

"How come you had a key? Do you belong to that church?" When she shook her head, Don continued, "Then what were you doing there?"

Lydia didn't answer. Don leaned across the table. "Do you understand what happened here? It was a bomb in a church. That makes it a possible hate crime. It makes it a possible terrorist act. And you were inside that locked church, on a Saturday night."

Lydia's mouth fell open. "You can't possibly think I had anything to do with that."

"I don't," Don said evenly. "But I don't want there to be any questions later. I'm trying to eliminate you from the suspect list."

She hung her head, slumping in her chair. There was a long silence, and finally, Lydia took a deep breath. "Okay. I was there for the AA meeting," she said. "It starts at eight. We take turns setting up – putting out chairs and literature, making coffee. It's a big meeting; the urn makes 100 cups and it takes a while to brew. I was there because it was my turn. Daniel was helping."

Don nodded thoughtfully, his mind in investigation mode. "So where'd you get the key?"

"From the church. There's one we pass around. I took it last Saturday, from Paul, after he set up."

"Where's it been all week?"

"In my purse."

"Where is it now?"

"Blown up, I guess. I put it on the table while we were doing the chairs."

"Have you had your purse all week?" Don persisted. "Could someone have taken the key to copy and returned it without your knowledge? How many people go to this meeting? Can you get me a list?"

A horror was growing on Lydia's face. "I would have noticed it gone, because I put it in my wallet so I wouldn't lose it," she said. "But no one from the meeting would have had anything to do with this."

"We'll have to check it out. Can you get me a list of people who had that key for the last several weeks? We can start there."

"I can try," Lydia said. "That second 'A' does stand for anonymous, but I'll talk to them."

"Tonight," Don emphasized.

She pulled her phone out of her purse. "Get me some paper and I'll see what I can do."

Don stood up. "Come on, I'll set you up somewhere a little more comfortable."

They were halfway to his desk when he suddenly said, "Lyddie, what were you doing at an AA meeting?"

She looked at him, astonished. "Are you serious? What do you think?"

Twenty minutes later, she put a piece of paper in front of her brother. Don squinted at it – it was a list of first names and numbers, but there was no other identifying information.

"Wait -- Paul M.?" Don questioned. "What's his last name?"

"I don't know," Lydia said. "We don't use last names. I have his number, he said you could call him. Two of the people didn't want their anonymity broken."

"This is a federal investigation," Don reminded her. "I need these names."

"I don't know what to tell you," she said. "I asked them all, and I explained, and this is what I have for you. It is what it is. I don't know how you subpoena a Twelve Step organization. They have a Web site, maybe you can contact someone? It's mostly run by volunteers, but there might be someone. It's AA-dot-org."

"Okay," Don said slowly. "Thanks."

Lydia's cell phone rang – Don smiled as he recognized the opening notes of "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters." She answered quickly then asked the caller to hold on. "Are we all set?" she asked Don. "My friend Cindy said she'd pick me up so we can go get Daniel."

Don nodded and when she hung up, he walked her out of the building. It was almost midnight; he waited with her for her ride.

" Lydia, how long," he started, and broke off when she looked at him intently. "I mean, this AA thing – can I ask you? About that?"

She was quiet for so long Don was sure she was going to ignore him. "I've been going for a while," she said finally. "The very first time was when I first came back here, after I had the – after I saw you in Virginia. Mom went with me. But I couldn't stay sober. I'd stop for a couple of months, then something would happen, and I'd drink, and it got worse and worse. It got bad again when Mom was sick and after I left home, after that fight with Charlie. And then again when you got shot." She couldn't look at him. "The worst was when I saw you last year. I was coming off a horrible bender."

"How horrible?" Don whispered hoarsely.

"It was bad like I'll probably never tell you," Lydia replied bluntly.

"So what happened?"

She smiled faintly. "Counting Crows."

Don furrowed his brow. "What, the group?"

"Yeah. I was in this bar one night and the jukebox started playing 'A Long December.' I've heard that song a million times – I mean, hell, I can play it -- but for some reason, it just hit me. It got me to thinking about that last December we had Mom, and about forgiveness, and how awful I was to you guys – and, I don't know, something flipped. I just knew I didn't want to die an early drunken death, and that was probably where I was headed. I'd met Daniel years ago in Program and I called him. He came and got me and took me to a meeting. I've been sober ever since -- in six weeks, it'll be a year. Day at a time, though."

"Why haven't you called any of us?" Don prodded.

Lydia took a deep breath. "Because," she started, her voice breaking, "after all those things I said and did – I'm so ashamed. How could I possibly face Charlie? And Dad? Why would you want to see me?"

"Because we love you. And we miss you," Don said quietly. "No one's been mad at you for a long time. Just worried. The postcards keep Dad from insisting I put out a BOLO on you, but they don't quite cut it."

"You think it'd be all right to call Dad?"

"All right?" Don echoed. "Um, yeah." He gestured to the two of them. "This is all right, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, years of regret in her voice. "This is great. It's just … it's scary."

"You know, in my line of work, I see a lot of bad shit," Don said. "And I've seen a lot of heroes. And I have to tell you, one of the bravest things I've ever seen was you singing at Mom's funeral. Your voice didn't crack, you didn't hesitate – you were amazing."

"That's only because you were holding my hand," she answered quietly.

Don was surprised into speechlessness. He reached out and Lydia took his hand. "I can still do this," he said finally. "Dad and Charlie can, too."

Lydia swiped her free hand across her eyes. "I was such a mess, Donny. I'm not sure I'm still not a mess. The booze was a great cushion. I feel pretty naked a lot of the time." She took a deep breath. "But I'm not drinking. And I have stretches of time where I don't feel like I have to. They keep telling me that's something."

* * *

_A/N "Program" or "The Program" refers to AA and other Twelve-Step programs as a whole, i.e., "Mary's in Program" or "I know John from the Program." _


	30. Chapter Twenty Eight

_I don't own Numb3rs. "A Long December" is by Counting Crows from their "Recovering the Satellites" CD (great album, BTW) and was written by Adam F. Duritz. The line from the episode "Guns & Roses" is credited to Robert Port. _

* * *

**Chapter 28  
Still October 2006  
Ten days later  
**

When Don got no answer on Charlie's cell phone, he called Alan. "How's he doing?" he asked when his father answered.

"I don't know, Donny, someone shot at the two of you today," Alan answered, irony evident in his voice. "In your office. Despite your security. How do you think he's doing?"

"Dad, come on, I had no way of knowing --" Don cut himself off as he caught Colby throwing him a glance. This was not an argument he wanted to be having on the phone or in public. "Never mind. Tell him I called; I'll check in later, all right?

He snapped his phone closed and directed his attention to the younger agent. In the storm of unexpected gunfire, a bullet from Colby's gun had killed a suspect and he was barred from field duty until the investigation was complete.

"Granger, you doin' all right?"

"Yeah, all right," Colby allowed, his voice oddly gentle and compassionate. "I'm not the one who's been to a funeral, reunited with my sister and been yelled at repeatedly by my dad in the last week or so."

The job goes in cycles, Don reflected. Cases could be mundane and almost boring – Internet scams, mail fraud – but it did seem when the shit hit the fan, it hit hard.

The week before, Don's team, with Charlie and Larry's help, had been on a case involving a dead Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives agent. The woman, Nikki Davis, had been killed with her own weapon and initially, it was thought to be a suicide. She had been an old girlfriend of Don's and he took over the investigation. When the case was over, they'd uncovered dirty ATF agents. Those agents and their accomplices were arrested, but Nikki's husband, Richard, and a government informant were dead.

Don had gone to the funeral, a double service for both Nikki and Richard, sitting discreetly in the back row of the church. He wasn't sure he'd be welcome, but Nikki's brother recognized him and pulled him aside, thanking him for not dismissing his sister's death as a suicide.

As if that wasn't draining enough, there was also Lydia. Don had only spoken to her twice since he'd found her ten days before, and both of those conversations had been about the church bombing. It was as if they hadn't reconnected at all.

And then this morning …

"Agent Eppes." When Don didn't answer, Colby raised his voice a little and said sharply, "Boss. Don."

Don looked over quickly, feeling his face flush. He wasn't usually prone to distraction.

"Take off," Colby said. "Reeves is already gone. I'll wait for Sinclair to get back." His voice softened. "Seriously, dude. I mean, with all due respect and chain of command and all that, you aren't looking so hot."

Don hesitated a moment, then said, "All right. But you call me if you get anything new. And don't stay here all night."

Colby snapped him a salute as he gathered his things and left the office.

Don shut the Suburban's door and sighed, resting his hands lightly on the wheel. He didn't want to go home. He thought of going to Robin's, but he and the attorney had been seeing one another only a week and somehow, it didn't feel right.

He thought of something his father had said to him recently, about commitment and relationships. _What's the worst that can happen?_ Alan had asked him. _I'll tell you. The relationship fails, right? So then what? Then you're back where you are right now. But the only difference is, instead of being afraid, you took a chance._

He was trying to do that with Robin. Maybe it didn't only apply to girlfriends.

He fumbled for the new CD on the seat beside him. He slid it into the player and then checked the directions scribbled on an old napkin and pointed his car toward Santa Monica.

_A long December and there's reason to believe  
Maybe this year will be better than the last  
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leavin'  
And the days go by so fast _

_And it's one more day up in the canyon  
And it's one more night in Hollywood  
If you think that I could be forgiven...  
Wish you would _

_The smell of hospitals in winter  
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls  
All at once you look across a crowded room  
To see the way that light attaches to a girl _

_And it's one more day up in the canyons  
And it's one more night in Hollywood  
If you think you might come to California...  
I think you should _

_Drove up to the Hillside Manor sometime after two a.m.  
And talked a little while about the year  
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,  
Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her _

_And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe  
Maybe this year will be better that the last  
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself  
To hold on to these moments as they pass _

_And it's one more day up in the canyon  
And it's one more night in Hollywood  
It's been so long since I've seen the ocean…  
I guess I should  
_

He listened attentively, trying to hear it through Lydia's ears, to understand how a simple rock song could turn your life around when your family could not. He'd played it seven times before he pulled up to the neat little house near the beach.

He pulled off his sunglasses as he rang the doorbell. A woman answered and Don smiled at her. "Hi. Is Lydia here?"

"Sure, come on in." She held the door open. Don stepped over the threshold and was immediately assaulted by the smell of garlic. "Are you a friend of hers?"

"I'm her brother."

The woman's eyes widened. "No kidding? Are you the fed or the genius?"

"I'm the fed," Don replied, amused.

She nodded knowingly. "I should have guessed by the suit. She's in the kitchen."

She led him down a short hallway and into a small but well-lit kitchen. Lydia glanced up from her chopping and said, "Hey, Sharon, do we …" Her voice caught in her throat as she saw Don standing behind her roommate. "Hey," she said slowly.

"Hey," Don answered.

Sharon quickly left, but as she did, she mouthed "My God, he's cute!" behind Don's back.

Lydia looked anxiously at her brother. "Is Dad all right?" she asked.

"Fine, he's fine." Don took a deep breath. "Um, there was this … incident at the office today. Someone started shooting. I was standing there with Charlie and this bullet went – it went right between the two of us."

Lydia closed her eyes, as if that would stop the horrifying image that rose up in her head.

"In the field, you have a plan, you've got gear, backup – but this …" Don shuddered, the stress of the day finally catching up to him. "Having a bullet get that close to you makes you think. And it's happened to me more times than I care to count. But having a bullet that close to Charlie, and that's happened more than once, too – God, Lyddie."

He took a hesitant step forward, and tears pricked the back of Lydia's eyes. She hadn't seen that naked look on his face since he came home after Margaret got sick and she and Charlie found him weeping in the back yard.

"I miss you," he said hoarsely. "I've been missing you for a long time. For you to be here – to be well and not let us be part of that – that's just selfish. It's as bad as why we were so mad at Charlie."

She looked away, the truth of what he was saying pounding at her uncomfortably.

"So I came to ask you if you'd come by the house with me and see Dad. Make things right with Charlie. Just … I don't know, just hang out with us. I don't want to leave that stuff undone and you shouldn't be asking us to. We should have learned that from Mom."

There was a long painful pause and then Don said, "Please." His voice broke.

Lydia crossed to him in two steps and threw her arms around his neck. Don squeezed her tightly, clutching a handful of her shirt, trying to get his breathing under control.

Lydia pulled away to look at him, her eyes bright. "Every day, I stay away from the booze and I try to do my best," she said evenly. "Some days, my best sucks."

"I'll take that," Don said. When she didn't answer, he pressed, "All right?"

She closed her eyes. A single tear ran down her cheek. "All right," she decided.

* * *

Don stayed for dinner. His sister was still an amazing cook. She was sharing the house with two women from AA, Sharon and Cindy. Daniel showed up during dessert and coffee, shaking Don's hand firmly and thanking him for his attention to the church bombing case. Daniel greeted Lydia so warmly that Don knew this man was more than just his sister's friend from the Program.

Two hours later, Don and Lydia hugged goodbye and agreed to talk in the morning about going to Pasadena. As he headed back to his apartment, Don tried Charlie again.

Charlie picked up on the first ring. "Hey," he answered hurriedly. "I was just working on a model of your office to figure out some of the trajectories and where the --"

"I called to check up on you," Don interrupted. "I mean, yeah, that stuff's great, and we can use it, I'm sure, but that's not why I called."

Charlie was quiet for so long Don thought they'd lost their connection. Finally, the professor said, "I don't know how you do that every day."

"I don't get shot at every day," Don reminded him.

"I suppose."

"Charlie, if you want to talk to someone, I'm sure Megan --"

"No. I think I'll be all right. It was just --"

"Frightening," Don supplied. "Yeah, I get it."

Charlie grunted. "Yeah. Like you get scared."

Don laughed. He pulled into the turning lane and waited at a red light. "Who told you I never get scared?" he asked. "I'm scared every damn day. Having you in the line of fire – that's goddamned terrifying."

"Oh," Charlie said in a small voice.

"Yeah, oh." Don exhaled slowly. "Listen, I thought I'd try to stop by tomorrow night for dinner, is that all right?"

"Yeah, of course. Dad bought rib eye today. This will further cement his theory that you have a sixth sense about red meat. What's that word – chinky? Crinky?"

"Hinky."

"Yeah, that. Hinky about rib eye."

Don could hear the grin in his brother's voice. "All right. See you then. And Charlie – call if you need anything. I mean anything at all, no matter what time it is." _I love you, and I'm glad you're all right. _

"I will," Charlie answered quietly. "I'm glad you called. I'll talk to you tomorrow." _I love you, too, thanks for looking out for me. _

Don closed the phone with a small smile. Maybe it was all right to dance around it, as long as you could read between the lines.


	31. Chapter Twenty Nine

_Bad language warning and dialogue credit to Ken Sanzel, who wrote the episode "Rampage." _

* * *

**Chapter 29  
The next day  
**

Granger was still not cleared and though there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would be, his absence in the field was draining for both the team and Colby himself. They were trying their best to sift through the evidence but the fact that both the office itself and the war room were crime scenes was hindering them.

Don was sitting in the break room, one of the only accessible spaces, by six a.m. Charlie's math would have been incredibly helpful and he was working on the case, but he was too spooked to actually come into the office. They talked several times but it wasn't the same as having the hands-on input.

After several frustrating hours of slow going, Don finally sent the team home. "We'll tackle it on more sleep," he suggested. "And I'll see if I can talk Charlie into coming in."

Don was going to Charlie's – but he picked up his sister first. Lydia was waiting nervously on her front steps and she practically sprinted to the car as he stopped.

"What's wrong?"

"Just go before I change my mind," she said, buckling her seatbelt.

"Ah, it'll be fine," Don assured her. "Dad'll be thrilled to see you. He's not so scary."

Lydia looked at him dubiously.

"Anymore," he amended.

She smiled and started to say something when her cell phone rang. She talked quietly for a few moments as Don held back a laugh – the person on the other end was clearly giving her a pep talk.

When she hung up, she offered, "That was Daniel. He says I should tell you not to let me run."

Don did laugh then. "This is not the big deal you're making it into, Lyddie."

"Yeah, he said that, too. Stupid boys." She looked out the side window. "He's a good guy. He's a musician, did I tell you that? He's a teacher during the day, but nights and weekends and summers he plays the drums and the guitar. He runs this little coffeehouse on Sunday nights in Tarzana – I'm thinking about doing a song or two at the open mic."

"You should," Don encouraged. "Are you playing at all?"

"Not too much. No piano, you know? Even that Casio is long gone."

Don shook his head. "You should keep at that," he said. "It almost doesn't matter how good you are, if you love it."

"You know what we did?" she asked fondly. "We both walked away – me from music, you from baseball -- because we were never going to be as good at those things as Charlie was at math."

"I did – we – no." Don paused. "You think?"

"Yeah, I think. At least, I think I did. I blamed a lot of things on Charlie. Easier than looking at myself. But you know what? It's all right. It worked out okay for you. You're a good cop and you like it -- my God, people are alive because of you. And I look at that, and I think maybe there's a CD in me somewhere after all, and I can record it just for me."

Don nodded and pulled into the driveway. He squeezed Lydia's hand and she nodded back.

At the sound of the car door slamming, Alan remarked dryly to Charlie, "Well, that would be your brother, just as the steaks go on."

Then a second door slammed and Alan glanced out the window. "He's got a girl with him. He … oh my God. My God."

"What is it?" Charlie asked, but Alan was already across the room. He flung the front door open and met Don and Lydia on the walk.

Lydia took a deep breath and said, "Hi, Dad. I was wondering --"

She got no further before Alan crushed her to his chest. She stiffened for a moment, then hugged him back, sniffling back tears.

"Thank God, thank God." Alan pushed her away to look at her. "Oh, sweetheart, you look wonderful. Look at you. My beautiful girl." He pulled her back against him, and Don, sensing Alan's reaction was overwhelming his sister, rested one hand reassuringly on her back.

Charlie had come down the front steps, and as Alan let Lydia go, she caught his eye. "Hi," she said softly.

He nodded. Neither of them moved; they just stared at each other. "Wow," Charlie said finally. "This is – um, wow."

Lydia tried to smile at him, not sure if it was a good wow or a bad wow.

"Where did you find her?" Alan asked.

Don and Lydia looked at each other and they both began to laugh helplessly.

"At a crime scene," Don replied. "Come on, let's go in. We'll tell you all about it."

* * *

Ten minutes later, it was as if Lydia had never left. She filled them in on her job at a local bank and described her house to Charlie and Alan. Don told them about the church bombing and then Lydia had to spend a few minutes assuring her father that she really was fine.

When Alan offered them a beer, she said quietly, "No, thanks, I don't drink anymore."

Don stopped, his hand out to take a bottle from his father. "Will this bother you?"

"No, thanks, but no, go ahead," she answered. "I don't expect the rest of the world to stop just because I did."

Charlie set a platter of beef on the table and gave her a tentative smile. "You didn't become a vegetarian, did you?" he asked.

Her heart soared. "And miss this? Not a chance."

When the talk turned to the office shooting, Lydia stood and began to clear the table. When she was finished, she put on a pot of coffee and wandered outside.

Charlie found her fifteen minutes later, crouched by the pond, trailing one hand in the water. She looked up at him. "I missed the koi," she said. "I know that sounds silly, but I did."

"They're surprisingly soothing," Charlie said.

"Yeah, I guess so." She stood up and saw that Charlie was holding two cups of coffee. He handed one to her and sat down on the bench.

"Thanks," she said, sitting beside him.

"Sure. Where have you been?"

"Fucked up," Lydia answered. "Drunk. Guilty. Broke. You know."

"I don't know," Charlie admonished her. "You never called."

She nodded. "You're right. I thought it was better to stay away – my state of mind was pretty bad."

"Come on," Charlie said, striving for a light tone. "How bad could it have been?"

"My initials spell the word lie," she said abruptly.

Charlie started. _Lydia Irene Eppes._ "Yeah, I guess they do, I never thought of it before."

"I thought that was significant," Lydia said. "Like, destiny or something."

Charlie's mouth fell open. "That's … um. Yeah. Okay. That's fucked up."

They both chuckled. "It made sense at the time," Lydia said. "Then again, if you drink enough tequila, a lot of ridiculous things make sense." She looked at her brother and took a deep breath. "I'm really glad you were home tonight. I owe you an apology."

Charlie knew immediately she was talking about their last fight. "You don't, not so much," he returned calmly. "I recall saying some unkind things myself."

She offered him a small smile. "You called me a whore and said I drank too much. But I think I'd called you a selfish bastard first. Or something like that."

"Maybe," Charlie said carefully, "there was a bit of truth on both sides. But I don't think it's so true anymore."

"No, it's not. I don't want to be that girl anymore." Lydia took a sip of her coffee. "Still, there are some things I need to say. I'm sorry I wasn't nicer to you when we were kids. I never thought about how hard it must have been for you, to be just a little boy thrown into high school. I'm sorry I never tried to get your math – you came to a lot of my recitals and I never tried to reciprocate. Mostly, though, I'm sorry I was so ugly to you when Mom died. I wish I could take back the things I said the day of the funeral."

"So do I," Charlie said hoarsely. "It's … it's haunted me."

Lydia looked at him sharply. It occurred to her for the first time that Charlie was sorry, too. She saw the regret in his eyes and that, more than her own shame and guilt, brought tears to her own.

"I've always been so proud of you, Charlie," she whispered. "Damn jealous a lot of the time, but always proud."

Her brother was speechless. Lydia turned her attention back to the pond, clearing her throat. "I guess there's no use saying sorry unless you change your ways," she said. "So, math me. Do these guys have patterns?"

"Of course," Charlie said. He pointed. "Look at Chester."

"You named the koi?" Lydia asked, amused.

Charlie reddened. "Well. Anyhoo. He'll swim back in four circles."

Lydia watched and counted. "That's incredible," she said, as Chester came toward her, right on schedule. "Are you ever wrong?"

"Well, occasionally, you know, when you're dealing with living things, there are variables you can't account for," Charlie said. "Free will. Extenuating circumstances. Feelings. Like fear or guilt – or joy, even." He paused. "You, for instance, are off by nine days."

It took Lydia a minute to catch up. "Off by nine … what do you mean?"

Charlie didn't answer. Lydia put her hand on his shoulder. "Charlie. Did you have an equation for me?" She was stunned and absurdly touched. "Am I early or late?"

Charlie's hand crept up and covered his sister's. "You're right on time," he said. "And I must ask your forgiveness as well. I've made things as right as I can with Dad and Don. They keep telling me Mom understood and I've had to make my peace with that."

"She did," Lydia said. "We'd be complaining that you were in the garage and she'd tell us to let you be." She sighed. "That's why I stayed away so long, Charlie, though I didn't figure it out right away. I ignored my mother's dying wish, loudly and publicly. I didn't know what I could ever do to make that right and I was afraid to try."

"If you want to atone, I have an idea."

Lydia looked at him uncertainly. "What's that?"

"You could play for me," Charlie said instantly. "For us." He stood up and held out his hand. After a moment, she took it. "Come inside with me. There's something I want to show you."

Don and Alan were watching a hockey game as Charlie led Lydia over to the piano and handed her "Etude in G Minor."

"You should have this," he said. "But the price is you have to play it first."

Lydia's eyes widened. "Mom said she didn't have any copies of this and she claimed she didn't remember it," she said. "I always thought she was full of baloney."

The men all looked at each other. "You knew your mother wrote music?" Alan asked.

"Sure. It was one of the reasons she encouraged me to write my own, I think." She sat down and flexed her fingers, completely unaware of the stunned looks. She ran her fingers over the keys and smiled, delighted at the music. "I haven't played in a long time," she said as she smoothly navigated her scales.

"It comes back," Don said quietly. "Go on, play it."

She did. And though, thanks to Don, they were all familiar with the tune, Lydia played it with the emotion with which they imagined Margaret wrote. It was still true, what Don had said to her almost twenty years before: she could play what wasn't on the page.

She picked out melodies for the next half an hour or so. When she and Don were ready to leave, she left her phone numbers, address and e-mail and took the etude and one of Margaret's old music notebooks.

"So you're coming tomorrow?" Don said to Charlie. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, glancing at Lydia. "You have to do the things you're afraid of."

She smiled at him.

"So listen," Charlie continued, "We're going to need the surveillance footage and some tripods, a laser pointer – and we're going to need string."

"String?"

"Lots of string," Charlie confirmed. "I'll call Amita in the morning but I'm sure she'll come and help."

"Who's Amita?" Lydia asked as Alan helped her on with her sweater.

"Isn't that the million dollar question," Alan said wryly.

Charlie ignored his father and wrapped his sister in a hug. "You'll have to come back sometime and I'll enlighten you," he said softly. "Provided, of course, that I've figured it out for myself."

"Don't stay away that long," Alan cut in.

"I'm going to do everything I can to be sure that doesn't happen again," Lydia assured him.

* * *

"So that wasn't so bad," Don said as they drove back toward Santa Monica.

Lydia settled contentedly against her seat. "I think I want to be just like Dad when I grow up. He just loves us and forgives us because we're his kids." Before Don could comment, her eyes fell on the Counting Crows CD. "Hey, when did you get that?"

"A couple of days ago. Only you would like a rock song with an accordion."

She hit at him playfully. "I'd love to learn to play the accordion. It's so fun." A thoughtful look came over her face. "Maybe I will. I can do anything I want, right?"

"Absolutely." The CD was still in the player – Don hit the button and they listened to Adam Duritz in comfortable silence until they pulled up to Lydia's house.

"Want to come in?" Lydia asked.

"Next time," Don answered. "I have to meet Charlie at the office at seven. And find some string."

"I'll call you soon," Lydia said, and for the first time in years, Don believed her.

She got out of the SUV and went over to Don's side, leaning in the window to kiss his cheek. "By the way, I've been meaning to thank you."

"For what?"

"For the money last year," she said. "It was $54.39. It bought me lunch, a new cell phone battery and a bottle of rum."

"Swell," he groaned.

"It's actually not as bad as it sounds. A couple of months later, it was the last thing I drank."

Don stared at her.

She snickered. "I'm sure there's something poetic about that, somehow. I'll let you know when I figure it out." She backed away so he could pull out. "I love you."

_Man. I missed that. _"Yeah, me too," Don said. He pointed his finger at her. "Stay where we can find you."

She snapped a salute at him, reminding him oddly of Colby, as he drove away.


	32. Chapter Thirty

**Chapter 30  
November 2006  
**

Lydia's Saturday night AA group had temporarily moved from the bombed-out church to a community center in Van Nuys. Other groups in the area donated money and goods to replace what they'd lost in the explosion – books, literature and the 100-cup coffee urn.

Five weeks after the bombing, Don's team discovered it had been organized by an anti-Christian group. The leader, Gabriel Zommer, had paid a young man named Joseph Maucalay $300 to get a copy of the key. Joseph was Paul M.'s brother, the man in the AA group who had the key the week before Lydia.

The group of sober alcoholics rallied around Paul and his elderly mother, offering comfort and camaraderie. One of them, an attorney, even offered to represent Joseph.

"He wants to help a bigoted bomber?" Don had snapped at Lydia in disgust.

"He wants to help his friend's little brother who needed that money so badly he didn't think about what he was doing," Lydia had answered quietly. "He used it to pay the electric bill and pick up his mother's prescriptions. He was wrong, sure, but he's not a terrorist."

Don found himself shamed into silence.

In the last few weeks, Lydia and her family became used to being with one another again. After Don and Charlie promised they wouldn't let their father ask any embarrassing questions, she brought Daniel by the old Craftsman house. The three of them were secretly pleased to be cahoots again.

Don was continually amazed and impressed at the commitment and compassion his sister's AA friends showed one other. He quickly stopped being jealous and annoyed they'd been there to help Lydia when he had not, and was instead deeply grateful she'd found them.

Don shook himself out of his thoughts and pulled into the lot of the community center, watching for a moment as people parked and made their way into the building, calling out greetings and hugging one another. He walked inside slowly and followed the sound of people to a large gymnasium. There were several rows of chairs and a podium at the front of the room. To his left were two tables – one held coffee and plates of cookies and the other was piled with books and pamphlets. He stood quietly, and a little hesitantly, just inside the door.

"Hey – it's Don, right?"

Don turned. It was Sharon, Lydia's roommate. "Yeah – hi. Nice to see you again."

"You too. Are you looking for Lydia? Or …" Sharon's voice grew soft and gentle. "Or did you have questions? Do you need a newcomer's packet or something?"

Don furrowed his brow and then flushed as he realized what she was asking. "Um, no, I … you don't think I …"

Sharon held up her hands in apology. "I meant no offense. I was just checking. I hate to think someone might walk in who needs help, and then walk back out because no one offered."

"I'm not offended, I just don't think I look like an alcoholic," Don said, then winced. He could hear a defensive edge to his voice and wanted to slap himself in the head.

Sharon, thankfully, threw back her head and laughed. "You let me know when you narrow that down," she giggled. "That'd be awesome – to be able to pick out our like fellows on the street."

Don smiled back, feeling his face flush.

"So you're looking for Lydia?" Sharon rescued him. "She and Daniel are here somewhere." Her eyes scanned the room and she pointed. "Yup. Over there, near the front. She's wearing a green shirt. See her?"

Don nodded. "I came to see – what do you call it? She hasn't had a drink in a year."

"Celebrate," Sharon said simply. "She's going to celebrate."

"Yeah." It was the perfect word for it.

"If I may make a suggestion," Sharon said quietly, "I'd go over and say hello if I were you. Let her know you're here before she just notices you from the podium."

The words were barely out of her mouth when Lydia looked their way and waved. Don could see the shock on her face from where he stood, but she didn't hesitate and started weaving her way through the crowded room toward him, pulling Daniel along by his hand.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, hugging him warmly.

"I came to see you celebrate," Don said smoothly, as if he hadn't just learned the term. "It's tonight, right? The night I found you at the church, you said six weeks."

Lydia and Daniel exchanged a glance. Daniel leaned forward and shook Don's hand. "Welcome," he said. "I'll let you two talk about this. You can sit with us, if you want." But he wasn't looking at Don, he was looking at Lydia, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

Don suddenly realized this particular party might have been invitation only. "I didn't mean to intrude," he said quietly. "I can go, it's all right."

"No, no – it's fine. Of course you can stay, I mean, it's amazing that you're here – but Don --" Lydia took a deep breath. "I'm going to tell my story." When Don looked blank, she elaborated, "About what happened to me when I was drinking. You might not want to hear some of it."

"You said it was bad like you'd probably never tell me," Don remembered unexpectedly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can take off."

She waved him off. "I can't afford to be uncomfortable if I want to say sober," she said, almost airily. "But it might make you uncomfortable to hear the sordid details."

"Oh, I doubt that," Don said dryly. "My job is sometimes the epitome of sordid details."

She laughed nervously. "It's just you? You didn't bring Dad, did you?"

"No," Don said slowly. "Should I have?"

"Um, no, I don't think so. I can't think of any man who wants to know his little girl behaved like a trollop."

Daniel had come back up to them and slid his arms around Lydia's waist. "That's a great word," he said. "We need to work that into a song somehow. I wonder what we could rhyme with it?"

"Wallop," she said. "A trollop with a wallop."

"Come on, Miss Trollop," Daniel teased. "They're about to start." He kissed Lydia's cheek and pushed her gently in front of him, gesturing to Don to follow. Sharon was sitting in the third row with Lydia's other roommate, Cindy. There were three vacant chairs next to them and Don, Daniel and Lydia sat down.

The meeting began with a prayer, some readings and some announcements, and then Lydia took a deep breath. She was sitting between Don and Daniel and she squeezed both of their hands before standing up and walking to the front of the room.

"Hi. My name is Lydia, and I'm an alcoholic," she said clearly.

* * *

She talked for almost a half hour, telling the story of her life. Don was spellbound, fascinated by her interpretations of their childhood. She was brutally candid. She talked about her first drink (at 14, with her friend Caroline) and her last (the end of the rum she bought with Don's tip, alone, on the pier in Santa Monica.) Sharon reached over and squeezed Don's arm as Lydia shared how much she adored her older brother and how abandoned she felt at 16, when Don went to San Bernardino and Charlie and Margaret went to Princeton. He had to look away when she talked about not getting into Berklee, and how she spent that fall drinking the days away after Alan went to work.

Some of the story was not a surprise – Don knew, of course, about Lydia's abortion. He knew she'd drank through most of their mother's illness and funeral arrangements, and he had always somewhat suspected she'd left college and music because of the drinking. Even knowing the little he did, it made sense that Lydia's drunkenness and hangovers had gotten her fired from countless bands and waitressing jobs. During the time she'd been out of touch with her family, Don had assumed she'd been in a bad way, and the details of that were worse than he had imagined. She talked about the car accident and Don had to close his eyes against the memory of the stab of panic he'd felt when the LAPD called him.

But he'd never understood why she drank as she did, and as Lydia began to quietly talk about that, he felt his stomach clenching and his heart constricting.

Fear. Fear that she'd disappoint Alan. That she wasn't as good at her music as Charlie was at math. That she'd lose Margaret permanently. That Don would get shot. It was fear, she said, that fed her insecurities and fed the little spark of the disease of addiction that grew into full-blown alcoholism. When, one by one, her fears came true, she didn't know what else to do but drink more and more.

Don thought of how he'd told Charlie he was scared every day. He'd said it to reassure his brother, but it was also true. It wasn't so much the job that worried him; it was his family – Charlie in the line of fire, Lydia in the path of destruction, his father weighted down by loneliness.

If Lydia coped by drinking – and drinking to the point that she was no longer in control of her own life – how did he cope? Beer. Women, before Robin. The batting cages. Dinner at Dad and Charlie's. Mostly, though, Don realized, he just went on to the next thing and pretended he wasn't getting the beginning of an ulcer.

Daniel leaned over and said into Don's ear, "You should to pay attention to this part."

Lydia was talking about getting sober – going to that first meeting back in 2000 with Margaret, slipping and sliding back into the bottle and entirely abandoning any thoughts of stopping when Margaret's cancer turned terminal. She told the story about the Counting Crows song and Don saw people all around him smiling and nodding in understanding.

"The longer I was sober, the clearer it became that I had to call home," Lydia said. "But I couldn't make myself do it. I was so afraid they'd tell me to stay away that I couldn't bring myself to pick up the phone. So the universe started dropping hints. One of the guys I work with started telling me about this great professor he met – that was my little brother. I was coming out of the grocery store one day and saw my father getting into his car – and as far as I knew, he never shopped in that part of town. Things like that happened over and over again, and I just ignored the signs."

She looked directly over at where her friends and brother were sitting. "You guys know Daniel and I were there when that bomb went off at St. Boniface," she went on quietly. "I was standing there talking to the police and all of a sudden my older brother was hugging me. The minute he said my name, I was so sorry I'd hurt him. I hurt all of them. I didn't mean to but I'm to blame for it just the same. My dad and my brothers are amazing. My mom was, too. I spent a lot of time thinking it was somehow their fault my life was a mess and you know what? It was all me. All they ever did was love me. They still love me. They still want me, after everything that happened. I can't believe how blessed I am." Her voice broke and she tried to smile. "And I can't believe I'm so damn stubborn that God had to blow up a building to get my attention."

There was a ripple of gentle laughter.

"I'm glad to be here tonight," she finished. "I'm glad I'm not drinking. I'm glad I have a shot at a decent relationship and I'm glad I get to know my family again. It's funny – by admitting I was completely powerless over the booze, I regained control over my life. It's incredible to think I really can do anything I want to, as long as I stay sober. What a trip, huh? Thanks for listening, and thanks for helping me."

People burst into applause. There were loud whistles and cat calls. In the third row, Don's jaw and throat were aching from the monumental effort he was making to hold back the tears. He needn't have bothered; underneath the murmuring and congratulations, he could hear sniffling. To his left, Daniel had risen, watching Lydia make her way toward them, crying openly and unashamedly. For a moment, Don envied him.

Daniel turned to him and smiled, running a hand over his face. "Your sister is a miracle," he said.

He let Daniel hug Lydia first and when he was his turn, he bent his head to hers and murmured an apology.

Lydia pulled back from him. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she admonished him gently. "You did nothing wrong." She smiled. "I don't know why I'm an alcoholic, Donny – it's just like we don't know why Mom got cancer. It's not your fault, or Mom and Dad's, or Charlie's – it's not even my fault. It's nothing anyone did. None of us knew – I didn't even know. But now that I do, I have to do whatever I can to not drink again. It's not my fault I'm an alcoholic, but it is my fault if I don't do anything about it." She peered at him intently. "Does that make sense?"

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely.

She cupped one hand on the side of his face. "Here's the deal – we're going to go down to Bickford's and be really loud and drink too much coffee. Do you want to come? It's not so exciting --"

"I'd love to come."

"I thought I'd call Charlie and see if he wanted to meet us there," Lydia said, almost shyly.

"You should," Don encouraged her. "That's a great idea."

She pulled out her cell phone to make the call. Don watched her, thinking, _Your boyfriend is right. You are a miracle._

* * *

_We have two more chapters … and for those of you who are wondering how Lydia will react to the events of "Hot Shot," please stay tuned._


	33. Chapter Thirty One

_I lied. I said two more chapters, but this turned out to be so long, I think it's three. Appreciation and disclaimers continue … _

* * *

**Chapter 31  
Early December 2006  
**

"_You did the right thing, going to see Dad," Margaret said. She was standing at the kitchen counter, chopping carrots. Lydia had been coming in from feeding the koi and was standing motionless in the doorway. "He's been worried about you for a long time." _

"_I … I know," Lydia stammered. "I … Mom, what … how can you be here?" She kept staring at her mother's hair – beautiful and thick, held back from her face by a casual headband. _

_Margaret waved her hand dismissively. "Because I'm dead, you mean? Oh, that's not such a big deal. Love doesn't die. I'm still your mother. It's funny how those clichés turned out to be true." _

_She handed Lydia a carrot. "Here. You don't eat enough vegetables. It isn't enough that you stopped drinking; you have to take care of yourself." _

_The kitchen smelled like chicken soup and underneath it, Lydia could make out the faint scent of Windsong. "Mama," she began. She stopped when Margaret turned abruptly and looked toward the doorway, at something only she could see. _

"_There's not much time," she said. "I want to ask you a favor. I want you to let Don lean on you. We both know you'll have to insist, but he listens to you. You have a little more influence over him than Dad or Charlie. He's going to need you. Can you do that for me? Lyddie? Sweetie?" _

"Sweetie." Daniel's voice was hoarse and low and he was poking at her shoulder. "Baby, your cell's ringing."

Lydia rolled over and fumbled on the night table, squinting at the clock. It was almost three a.m. Middle of the night calls were not totally unusual for her – when the urge to drink was strong, alcoholics called one another, and not all those urges came at a reasonable hour.

She didn't even bother to look at the caller ID. "Hello?"

"Lydia? It's Megan Reeves."

Lydia gasped and bolted out of bed. She hit the light switch, ignoring Daniel's groan behind her. She grabbed her jeans off the floor and said, "Is he alive?"

"What?" Daniel yelped, trying to untangle himself from the sheets. "Who?"

"Yes," Megan answered immediately, trying to sound reassuring. "He's alive. It doesn't seem to be life-threatening. He -- "

"Which hospital?" Lydia interrupted.

When Megan hesitated, only because she was momentarily flummoxed by Lydia's sudden ESP, Lydia went on, "If he wasn't going to the hospital, he'd either call me himself or pretend it didn't happen. So where are they taking him?"

"UCLA."

"I'll be right there." She snapped the phone closed and zipped her pants, which she had managed to get up while talking to Megan.

"It's Don?" Daniel asked.

Lydia nodded. She pulled off her nightgown and Daniel handed her a sweatshirt as she shoved her feet into her sneakers.

"Okay. So where did they take him?"

"UCLA." Lydia turned. Daniel was dressed with his car keys in his hand. The sight of his unquestioning support was so touching she blurted, "God, Daniel, I love you."

She'd never said it first before. He smiled gently at her. "I know you do. Come on, let's go check on your brother."

* * *

They came through the emergency entrance forty minutes later to find Colby, Megan and David sitting in the waiting area. They rose immediately. Colby went to the desk to tell the nurse that Agent Eppes' family was there and Megan and David came over to Lydia and Daniel. 

"He's going to be fine," Megan assured her, before Lydia could speak.

"Where was he shot?" Lydia asked through clenched teeth. She tried to keep her voice steady and she was grateful for Daniel's hand on her elbow.

David leaned forward and put his hand on Lydia's shoulder. "He wasn't shot," he told her. "He was checking out a lead and he was alone. He didn't wait for backup because there was a hostage and he was afraid the suspect would harm her."

"If he wasn't shot, what happened?" Daniel inquired.

Megan hesitated for the briefest of moments. On the one hand, Don would probably want them to be as vague as possible, but on the other hand, Lydia deserved the truth. She took a deep breath. "This guy has been drugging his victims, and he got Don in the neck with a syringe full of morphine and valium," Megan said. As the color drained from both Lydia and Daniel's faces, she went on quickly. "He called it in himself – we weren't that far away and he was still awake when we got there. We kept him talking most of the way here."

"That's good, right?" Daniel said.

"Yeah, that's good. In spite of how it looks, it all ended up fine – Don got the perp, we freed the hostage, and even though he's been pretty out of it, he got here in plenty of time." Megan smiled kindly at Lydia. "You'll have to tell me about the giraffe. I rode with him in the ambulance and he kept saying I should tell you not to cry because he was going to buy you a new giraffe."

Megan meant to be soothing but the words brought instant tears. "That happened when I was nine," Lydia choked out. "He's having flashbacks? This is an overdose, right? I mean, he didn't do it, but that's what happened – and – oh, my God." She looked at Daniel, panicked. "Remember what happened to Nissa?"

"We … know someone who OD'd on heroin," Daniel filled Megan in. "She lived but she was never quite the same."

"Lydia," Megan said firmly. "This is not the same thing."

She got no further before Colby returned with a doctor in tow. "Dr. Bruno, this is Lydia Eppes, the agent's sister," he said quickly. "Lydia, Dr. Bruno's been treating Don."

Lydia seemed to have lost her voice. Daniel quickly stepped in. "Agent Reeves told us he was injected with morphine and valium," he said. "How's he doing?"

"Remarkably well," Dr. Bruno said. She was a short Hispanic woman with a long braid down her back, her diminutive stature belying her no-nonsense and direct attitude. "He was in our care within an hour of the overdose. He also suffered a head wound; we stitched that up without issue. We're keeping a close eye on his breathing and blood pressure but I expect he'll make a full recovery."

"Can I see him?" Lydia whispered.

"Of course. He's still unconscious, but you're welcome to sit with him." Dr. Bruno raised her eyebrows. "He's being closely monitored – I didn't want to put him on a ventilator but obviously, we need to know if he stops breathing. Don't let the tubes and wires intimidate you."

Lydia felt a little faint. She turned back to Megan. "Did you call my father?" she asked.

Megan shook her head. "Don said to call you."

"He ... what? When?"

"In the ambulance," Megan said. "I told him I was going to call Alan and he said, 'call my sister.'"

Lydia sighed heavily.

"I'll do it," Daniel said. "I'll find Charlie and have Charlie bring him here. You go."

"See if he has any idea how to get a hold of Robin, all right?"

"Will do."

_Robin? Brooks? _Megan exchanged a glance with Colby and David and as Colby opened his mouth, shook her head at him. Don was entitled to his privacy. It's not like she was telling everyone how much time she'd been spending with Larry Fleinhardt.

Lydia followed Dr. Bruno down the hall. Don was still in the treatment area, lying still on a gurney that looked much too small for him. As the doctor had warned her, he was hooked up to machines which were monitoring his heart rate, blood pressure and breathing.

Lydia pulled a chair up next to the bed and leaned forward, curling her fingers around her brother's. There was no response. "Donny, you idiot, what the hell were you thinking, going in by yourself?" she sniffled.

_This is where they brought me after the accident,_ she abruptly realized, and tears began pouring down her face. _Oh, God, Donny, is this what I did to you? _

Daniel pulled up a chair beside her. "Your dad and Charlie are on their way," he said quietly. "Charlie didn't have a number for Robin, though. He said he'd leave a message at her office so she'd get it first thing."

Lydia leaned heavily against him. He stroked her hair and for a few moments they sat listening to Don's soft snoring.

"Hey," Daniel said finally, "tell me about the giraffe."

Lydia took a deep breath. "I was nine and Charlie was six," she began. "I had this stuffed giraffe. My aunt Becky gave it to me – I'd had it for years. It had these little pellets in it. It got a hole and started losing pellets. Charlie calculated how many were left inside, based on how many had fallen out and how big it was, and he took it apart to see if he was right."

"Was he?" Daniel couldn't resist the question and he was pleased to see it brought a slight grin to his girlfriend's face.

"Within five pellets, or something like that," she answered. "My parents punished him because he'd gone into my room and just taken it, but mostly I think they were impressed." She looked over at the bed and ran her thumb over Don's knuckles. "Don was eleven – he had a paper route and was saving up to buy this baseball glove – some great brand or something, I don't remember – and he bought me a giraffe instead."

She straightened with a gasp.

"What?"

"He's squeezing my hand." Lydia stood up and leaned over the bed. "Don? Hey, can you open your eyes?"

Don's eyelids fluttered. Lydia leaned over her brother, her free hand stroking his hair. "There he is," she soothed as Don tried to focus. "You're all right. You're at UCLA."

Don tried to clear his throat and what came out was a weak cough. The sound twisted Lydia's stomach; she'd never seen her brother so fragile before.

"The girl," he croaked.

"She's okay," Lydia assured him. "Megan said they got her."

"'s good."

"Yeah, that's good." She turned her head to wipe a tear on her shoulder, loath to let go of her brother. "How do you feel?"

Don closed his eyes again. "No wonder … Mom … liked her … drip."

Lydia uttered a short burst of laughter. When she found her voice again, she said, "The doctor says you'll be fine. You just rest. Dad and Charlie are coming."

Don tried to focus on her, his brow furrowing in protest, and she smiled encouragingly. "Dad probably already has the soup on. We'll bundle you into bed over there."

" … be fine," Don tried to protest but his effort was ruined by an enormous yawn.

"You said you wanted me back in your life, this is what you get," Lydia tried to tease him. "Are you sorry now?"

"Not … a …. chance," Don's voice was fading rapidly. "BOLO on you …"

"I'm not going anywhere," Lydia murmured.

Daniel came up behind her. "I'm going to find Dr. Bruno." 

"Yeah, that might be good. And see if the team's still here – they'll want to see him."

"Tell … Granger …"

"Sh," Lydia hushed him. "You can tell him yourself when you feel better." Her hands were shaking and she wished for a drink so badly it frightened her. She reached behind her for the chair and pulled it as close to the gurney as she could manage, keeping one hand firmly in Don's. She watched the worry line in Don's forehead smooth itself out as his breathing became deeper.

_I want to let him lean on me, Mom, _she thought, _but I don't know how to make him let me. _

She closed her eyes, just for a moment. When Daniel returned five minutes later, with both Dr. Bruno and Megan in tow, Don and Lydia were both asleep.

* * *

**Two days later**

Don was in excellent physical health and made rapid progress. Dr. Bruno, mostly as a precaution, kept him for an extra day of observation before authorizing his release. Alan, as Lydia had predicted, insisted that Don come home to Pasadena rather than go to his apartment. Also as expected, Don objected and actually sulked about it until Lydia called to ask him if it was his turn now.

"My turn for what?" he said irritably.

"Charlie's big selfish period was going into the garage when Mom was sick," she answered. "Mine was crawling into the bottle and not letting any of you help, even when I was better. So … is this yours?"

Don hung up on her but didn't say another word about it, just acquiesced to Alan's plans.

Lydia took the day off work and aired out Don's old room, making his bed with fresh sheets and cleaning three months worth of dust off the furniture. Alan left the house early to attend a client meeting and run errands before picking up his oldest. Charlie was at school, and Lydia started to wander around the house with her memories. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been there alone and after an hour, she decided she didn't much like it.

When Charlie came home from CalSci, she was sitting motionless on the couch. On the coffee table in front of her was an enormous glass of wine.

Charlie dropped his satchel to the floor and sank down next to her. "Oh, Lyddie," he said sadly.

"I didn't drink any of it." Lydia's voice was a curious mixture of pride and regret. She turned to Charlie with shining eyes. "But I really want to," she whispered brokenly.

"Um … should I call someone? What should I do?"

Lydia felt a stab of guilt at the tone in his voice, which made her both grateful she hadn't drunk the wine and itchy to raise the glass. "There's nothing to do. Daniel said this morning he'd be here by three – he's probably on his way."

"Don's all right," Charlie said, trying to reassure her. "He'll be home this afternoon -- you don't want him to come in and see you drunk, right?"

"Right," she sighed. "But it's not about Don. It's … it's hard to know what to do, Charlie. I was okay the other night, because there was something to do – to sit with Don, call you and Dad – but now … what I always did at this point was drink. It's hard to --"

"I know," he interrupted.

She shook her head. "No. You're sweet, but no, you don't."

"Yeah, I do." He turned to face her, his expression deadly serious. "I'll make you a deal. I won't go after P vs. NP and you won't go after the booze."

He held out his hand. Lydia met him halfway and shook.

"Okay. It's a deal." She shifted on the couch, then pointed to the table. "Can you dump that out for me? I don't want to touch it again."

"Of course."

Charlie took the glass into the kitchen and dumped it down the sink, then returned the bottle on the counter to its place in the sideboard. He went back into the living room and sat next to Lydia.

"I'm all right," she said.

"I know you are," he answered. But he put his arm around her anyway and sat quietly with her until Daniel arrived, offering her the silent love and support he had wanted to show to Margaret when she was dying.


	34. Chapter Thirty Two

_I want to give a shout out to luvnum3ers, whose question in her last review alerted me to the fact that I'd left a giant hole in the last chapter. I'd thought of it, but never written it in. So thank you. And thanks continue to Charmed Mummy for her beta work. The Numb3rs episode "Hot Shot" was written by Barry Schnidel and "Hallelujah" was written by Leonard Cohen. The version quoted here was recorded by Rufus Wainwright. The second section takes place shortly after "Blackout." _

* * *

**Chapter 32  
Four days later  
**

Charlie woke with a start. His hand flew to his cheek, hoping to hold on to his mother's touch. _A dream? Of course it was a dream. But it seemed so real. She was right here … _He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply, imagining (or maybe not) the faint scent of Windsong perfume under the chalk dust.

As he went into the house, he heard a faint rustling in the dining room, and he peeked through the swinging door to see his brother making notes on a tablet. It made Charlie smile to himself; Don claimed he couldn't wait to get back to his apartment, yet less than 24 hours later, there he was, sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by papers.

Don looked up as Charlie placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. I didn't know you were here."

"I guess I must have dozed off back there."

"You got the good life, huh?" Don grinned.

For a moment, Charlie couldn't speak. He tried to smile back, mostly to reassure both himself and his brother that everything was fine and back to normal.

When Daniel had called the week before, Charlie had been awake, pouring over equations in the garage. As soon as he heard the news, the numbers pulled at him with such intensity that it took him twenty minutes to go inside, wake Alan, and leave the promised message for Robin Brooks. The integers were screaming when he and Alan had arrived at UCLA. Don, by that time, was half-awake and semi-coherent but the incident had badly shaken Charlie. If he hadn't made that deal with Lydia …

He squeezed Don's shoulder, a hug. "You're going to be okay, right?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Charlie looked like he was going to cry.

"What?" Don asked, worried.

"I … I just … I don't want you to think you're alone," Charlie said hoarsely. He sat down next to his brother. "It seems like you've always been left to take care of yourself. And in some ways, to take care of Lydia too. Maybe that's why you are the way you are."

"How's that?" Don asked, a little apprehensively.

"You know. Never allowed to be afraid."

He sighed. "Charlie, didn't you listen to what I told you after that thing in the office? I get afraid all the time. It's just not obvious because I've got a lot of people counting on me."

Lydia came in through the back door. When she had seen Don's SUV in the driveway, she'd gone to the garage first, and, finding it empty, wandered into the house.

She heard voices and started to push open the door when Charlie's soft, serious voice stopped her.

"I just want you to know this is your home, here with me and Dad. You and Lyddie, you belong here, with us, even if you don't live here. You always will."

Lydia's breath caughtFor so long, she'd been so sure that the damage she'd done to her family was irreparable. But she'd been wrong. Alan had forgiven her instantly. She and Don were close again, and she and Charlie were coming to a new understanding.

It wasn't like the past had never happened -- it was better than that. They knew each other, all the flaws and the mistakes and the regrets, and they loved each other anyway. An unconscious prayer ran through Lydia's head. _Thank you, God. Thank you that I'm not drinking anymore. Thank you for my family. _

Don and Charlie were interrupted by Alan's coming down the hall. "What are you boys up to?" he asked, then looked toward the door, catching Lydia's eye. "Why are you lurking over there?"

Don and Charlie both turned to look at her as she came fully into the room and shrugged. "The boys were having a moment. I didn't want to interrupt."

"A moment, huh?" Don chuckled at Charlie. "That what this is? You worried we don't come around enough?"

This time, Charlie was able to fully grin back. If it had been a moment, it was lost, but it didn't matter. They'd become adept at filling in the blanks.

"What brings you here?" Don asked Lydia.

"I came to check up on you," she answered. She pointed to the bottle of beer sitting in front of him. "That's probably a bad idea after all that morphine you had floating around inside you."

Part of Don thought he should tell his sister not to fuss at him. Most of him, however, was consoled by her presence. Reliving the overdose and the shooting was making him more uncomfortable than he wanted to admit.

Alan came over to the table. "What have you got there?"

"It's just my statement for the shooting."

"You got a problem about it?"

"I did shoot a man," Don said quietly. He glanced at Lydia, who smiled reassuringly at him. Both of them were thinking of the night in San Francisco when she played him to sleep, chasing away the nightmares. He suddenly remembered what she said to him: _You don't have to be so brave all the time, you know. _

Don wondered, not for the first time, if she might be right, just as his father said, "Yeah, because you didn't have a choice."

"You always have a choice," Don corrected him.

"Well, then the trick is to learn how to live with the ones you make."

Don looked back down at his papers. "That would be the trick," he agreed softly.

Lydia hugged him from behind. "Your choice has been to save lives," she said. "To prevent crime, to make the world safer – living with that choice doesn't seem like a hard trick."

She rubbed his shoulders as Alan scooted Charlie from his chair. "Want me to take a look? Your old man still has a few good ideas left."

"Yeah, all right."

"You know, I can calculate bullet trajectories based on the layout of the house," Charlie offered.

Don tipped his head back to look at Lydia, a small smile on his face. "What about you?"

She snorted. "Nothing about this, though I can spell-check for Charlie. And I can make dinner, since I'm sure you guys have only planned for take out and I don't have to be anywhere until my meeting at 7:30."

"Or you could play for us," Charlie suggested. He made the request almost every time he saw his sister, trying to make up for the years when there had been no music.

"You have seen through my ulterior motive," Lydia said solemnly. "I was hoping to borrow the piano."

The men passed papers back and forth as the music filled the room. "Lyddie, that's pretty, what is it?" Don asked.

"Nothing, really, just something I've been fooling around with," she answered. "I found a couple of bars in one of Mom's old notebooks. Daniel and I have been trying to turn it into a song."

"I like that boy," Alan said. "He seems like a good fit for you. Maybe the two of you should --"

"Dad!" Charlie and Don protested almost in unison.

"No, it's all right," Lydia said. She looked over her shoulder at her father. "I love Daniel. And he loves me. We'll see what happens. That's all there is to tell right now."

Alan nodded. "Well, then." He glowered at his sons. "See? That's all the answer I was looking for. So perhaps when I ask about Robin or Amita --"

"Okay, hey, I've been meaning to tell you guys," Don interrupted hastily, avoiding Alan's gaze. "Speaking of Mom? I dreamed about her."

Don's eyes were scanning the pad of paper in front of him and he missed the looks of shock on his family's faces.

"You … when?" Charlie managed.

"In the hospital." Don poked his brother. "Must have been that dream you told me about. Except she didn't make me pancakes."

He'd expected them to chuckle, but they were all staring at him with something like horror. "What? What's wrong?"

"In the hospital?" Lydia echoed faintly. "You didn't see a bright light or anything, did you?"

"Wha … no, no, nothing like that." Don felt his face flush. "Actually, we talked about morphine. And why …" His voice trailed off and then he cleared his throat and looked over at his sister. "And why the drinking was so appealing to you."

Lydia looked at Charlie. "You dreamed about her? Because I did too, the night Donny got hurt. She said I needed to let Don lean on me."

"She told me I had a question for her," Charlie said. He didn't want to elaborate; it seemed private, between him and Margaret.

"Do you think she came back?" Lydia asked in a shocked whisper. "I mean, the three of us dreamed of her in what? Like a week or something?" She waited for someone to contradict her but no one did.

"It was nice to see her," Charlie murmured.

_Yes, _Alan thought, _it certainly was. _

Lydia, flustered, turned back to the piano keys and started playing the first thing that fell from her fingers, which turned out to be "Hallelujah." A moment or two later, Don abandoned his paperwork entirely to listen.

_…Maybe I've been here before  
I know this room, I've walked this floor  
I used to live alone before I knew you  
I've seen your flag on the marble arch  
Love is not a victory march  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah  
Hallelujah, Hallelujah …_

_… Maybe there's a God above  
And all I ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you  
It's not a cry you can hear at night  
It's not somebody who's seen the light  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah  
Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah  
Hallelujah, Hallelujah  
_

"Geez, Lydia, do you even listen to the words you sing?" Don asked.

"Of course I do." She played the chorus through again. "This song has always reminded me of you."

"Of me?" Don wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted.

"Since we were kids."

"What do you mean, since you were kids?" Charlie asked. "Isn't that from 'Shrek'?"

"It's a Leonard Cohen song," Lydia said with some disgust. "He's been around since the '60s."

"That's my girl," Alan smiled.

* * *

**May 2007**

Don's SUV meandered down a quiet street in Arcadia.Lydia was scanning the house numbers. "There," she pointed, and Don pulled into the driveway.

The siblings had been talking about finding a two-family house, thinking they might buy one and each live in one apartment. At first, it was just idle talk, but somehow, now, it seemed they were actually looking.

This duplex had identical sides – each had three bedrooms and two bathrooms on two levels and the property had a good-sized yard. The neighborhood was quiet. It was a little expensive but it was by far the most promising.

"I like it," Lydia said as they got back into the car. "Maybe we should have Charlie run some algorithm on crime in the neighborhood and resale value."

Don laughed. "He'd have us living in the back of his house, by the koi."

"I suppose so."

"It's more than we talked about spending," Lydia said.

"I already told you, I'll swing the down payment," Don said patiently. "It'll be nice to use some of that money I've saved."

"Yeah, all those years of mooching meals off Dad and Charlie," Lydia smiled.

"You know, if we want to make an offer on this, there are some things we should figure out," Don said. "Rules and all that."

"You don't get to be in charge because you're the oldest," Lydia said.

"Sure I do." Don negated his point by sticking his tongue out at her.

Lydia snorted. "But yeah, you're right, we should talk about guidelines, I guess."

"No bad boyfriends," Don teased.

"Excuse me? I have a very good boyfriend." Lydia buckled her seat belt and shifted so she was facing her brother. "But he may end up living there at some point. Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah, sure." Don pulled out of the driveway, lifting his hand at the realtor. "Your turn."

"No cheap women."

A cloud crossed Don's face. "Yeah, you probably don't have to worry about women, period."

"No way, big brother, you're a catch," Lydia ribbed him. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm starting to think I don't have a long-term relationship in me," Don said. He was almost whispering, half-hoping she wouldn't hear him.

"Come on," Lydia protested. "I know it didn't work out with Robin, but you were serious with Kim. And there's no one now? Not even a beginning, maybe?"

Don thought of Robin. He'd been sincerely willing to try with her, but as he'd told Alan and Charlie, it takes two, and she didn't want to be one of them. Maybe it could have been serious, but he hadn't had the chance to find out. Now, he and Liz Warner were together and … having sex. That was about the extent of it.

"There's a girl to sleep with," Don said finally. "I don't know if it's much else."

"That's because you started backward," Lydia said. "Sex – that can be just sex. You know how many guys I slept with?"

"No and I don't wan --"

"Daniel and I dated almost a year before we made love." Lydia went on as if Don hadn't spoken. "Making love is totally different."

Don's face was scarlet. Lydia burst out laughing. "God, Donny, you can chase down murderers and pedophiles and have bullets flying at you, and it's no big thing, but your little sister says the word 'sex' and you go all to pieces."

"I'm not all to pieces –"

"And it's your turn. No bad boyfriends, no cheap women …"

He cleared his throat, grateful to change the subject. "No Barry Manilow through the walls. I don't care how well he plays the piano."

"Ha. Fine. No baseball memorabilia in any common hallways."

"I'll mow the lawn and take care of the yard if you cook for me sometimes," Don proposed.

"That's a deal."

"So are we making an offer?"

"Wow. Yeah, I think so." Lydia took a deep breath. "This is probably the most adult thing I've ever done. That's kind of a big deal."

"It's a good investment," Don said.

"It's more than that."

"Yeah," he answered companionably, "it is."

"Hey." Lydia pulled a CD out of her bag. "Do you want to hear the latest track?"

"You know I do."

For her birthday in April, Charlie and Don had found a recording studio and pitched in for a package. The gift certificate they'd given Lydia entitled her to a seven-song CD, with 100 copies.

Don smiled as his sister's voice, singing "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters," came through the speakers. "Are they all covers?"

"No. Three covers, three originals."

"That's only six."

"I think I'm saving the last track for 'Amazing Grace.' A cappella, for Mom. And I told Daniel I'd be the feature at his coffeehouse sometime at the end of this month. I'm hoping we'll be done by then – we're calling it a CD release party."

"You let me know when and I'll be there," Don promised.

Lydia settled back against the seat, tapping time on the arm rest. "I know you will," she said, hoping her tone would convey the depth of her gratitude. In moments like these, she couldn't understand how she'd been so stupid to stay away from her family for so long.

* * *

_A/N: I always felt badly that Don was the only one who didn't dream of his mother, so I took my fan fiction poetic license and changed that. Also, I should warn you that I don't like Liz, so her role in the next chapter will be a slight departure from canon. _

_We're almost done – the next chapter is the last. Thanks for reading!_


	35. Epilogue

_Thanks so much, everyone, for sticking with me on this fic. I own nothing. I owe Charmed Mummy big time. Thanks for all your reviews and for the pleasure of reading all your work as well._

* * *

**Epilogue  
Chapter 33  
July 2007  
**

Daniel's cousin Marty, also a sober alcoholic, had opened The Java Junkie in Tarzana in early 2005. It was cozy and comfortable, furnished with groups of couches and easy chairs, looking as if several living rooms had come together for a party. A bookshelf held board games and paperbacks and tables and chairs were set next to Internet portals. The menu offered snacks and baked goods, as well as assorted coffee, tea, juices and water – flavored, sparkling and plain – but no liquor. There was also a stage, and Daniel had been running a weekly music open mic almost from day the place opened.

Lydia had spent countless Sunday nights there – in the beginning, clutching a cup of coffee as if the act of holding the mug would keep her sober. Later, she'd come for the music and the company and over the last several months had started playing tunes of her own.

Now she was standing on the small stage with Daniel and Don, checking wires and microphones, trying to calm the churning in her stomach. Friends were coming in and calling hello as she tried to adjust the speakers, and when she saw Larry and Megan wave in her direction, she had to fight back a small panic attack. She liked Megan well enough and she'd known Larry for years, but still …

"This may have been a really bad idea," Lydia murmured.

"This was an excellent idea," Daniel corrected her gently. "Even if the CDs don't show up, it'll be fine."

Lydia groaned. She'd finished her disc on time and they'd set the date for the party and performance, but then the courier service the recording studio used went on strike. The copies had been sitting in San Francisco for days; that morning, even though it was the weekend, they'd arranged to get in and Lydia's roommates had gone after them.

Don held up a wire. "Does this go here?"

"No, no, blue to blue, red to red," Lydia said hastily. She leaned over him to make the correction and he saw how her hands were shaking.

"You can't be nervous," Don objected with some amazement. "The high school auditorium was way bigger than this is and I can't even remember how many times that place was packed when you played."

"I've never played without some booze in me," she said quietly.

"Come on -- you started playing to audiences when you were what? Fourteen?"

"Yeah. Well."

"Here." Don handed Lydia a small package wrapped in plain paper. "Maybe this will make you feel better."

She furrowed her brow at him. "You're the one with the birthday next week," she said as she tore the paper off. Her breath caught. It was a small frame with two pictures – one of the Eppes siblings from Don and Charlie's graduation and a copy of the formal portrait they'd had taken right before Margaret died.

"Last fall, when you told your story, you said these were some of the most precious things you had, and you had no idea where they'd gone," Don said quietly. "I know some things are lost forever, but these were easy enough to replace."

She hugged him. "You always get me, Donny."

He laughed into her hair. "Yeah. Ditto."

Lydia looked up. "Hey. There's Charlie and Amita and Dad and Millie."

"And Cindy and Sharon, with a large box," Don added. "There they are, hot off the presses."

As if she'd heard him, Sharon set down the box and waved. "Some nice guy you are, standing there letting us haul this stuff in," she called over amiably.

"Hey, women's lib and all that, you know." Don had come to know most of Lydia's friends; on his free Saturday nights, he'd fallen into the habit of stopping by Bickford's to see if any of them were there. He'd invited Liz a couple of times, but she always turned him down, saying she'd be seeing plenty of Lydia and Daniel once the Eppes siblings closed on their duplex. Don wasn't sure if she saw that as a good thing or not.

He glanced at the table Alan had secured. Both his father and brother had brought their women. Liz had begged off.

Lydia tore the box of CDs open and Sharon reached in and handed one to Don. The cover showed a faded photo of the Los Angeles skyline. The title was superimposed over it: _Federal Numbers Building Justice._

Don grinned. "That's awesome."

Charlie came up behind his brother. "Lemme see," he said, sounding for all the world like the pest he'd been twenty years before. Don and Lydia watched him puzzle over the cover and finally Don took pity on him.

"Charlie. Look – it's us. _Federal Numbers Building Justice. _Me, you, Dad and Mom."

Charlie colored. "Where are you?" he asked his sister.

"I sang the damn thing."

He laughed and turned the disc over, scanning the songs on the back. "I'd like to have one -- how much are they?"

"Oh my God, you're not serious," Lydia said incredulously. "You're my brother. It's free to you. Good Lord."

Mildred Finch paused beside them. "I'm going after tea; can I get you anything?"

They all declined. Millie leaned forward and squeezed Lydia's hand. "You're going to be wonderful," she said confidently. "And I know your father is so happy to watch you sing again."

"I like Millie," Lydia said as the older woman made her way across the room.

"You can afford to be magnanimous about it," Charlie said woefully. "She's not your boss." He fiddled distractedly with the plastic wrapper on the CD. "And she's nothing like Mom."

Don stared in surprise, but Lydia said immediately, "Well, no, thank God. That would be kind of weird, don't you think?"

Before Charlie could reply, she turned to Daniel. "They look good, huh?"

"They look great. And they'll sound even better." He gave her a gentle tug. "Why don't you find a seat – we're going to start soon."

"Are you playing too?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah. We're going to do a couple of songs and then turn it over to Lydia." Daniel put his arm around her. "I'm trying to talk her into doing her Joan Jett impersonation."

"No," Lydia protested. "I told you, I'll sing with you, but not that."

"Rock and roll, baby."

"No, Daniel." She pointed to where Alan was sitting, waiting for Millie. Alan misinterpreted her gesture and waved. She waved back. "My father is here; I'm not singing a song about where you want to touch me. The closest thing to risqué I want is a Barenaked Ladies song."

"Or Kid Rock," Daniel said thoughtfully. "Can you cover Sheryl Crow without giving your father a heart attack?"

Don watched them playfully bicker and he suddenly knew, as surely as he knew his parents had been soul mates, that he would someday stand in a tux and watch his sister marry this man. He also knew that if he wanted that same thing for himself, he was not going to find it with Liz.

Don actually had no idea how right he was. Three days before, Daniel had taken Alan to lunch and asked his permission to marry Lydia. Alan had responded by offering Margaret's engagement ring.

"Donny?" Lydia poked him. "Come on, let's sit and let them get started."

Daniel's band was called "Bingo" and they performed only cover songs. "We're a cover-all, Bingo, get it?" he asked cheerily, amidst groans of protest. They did three songs and then he did indeed pull Lydia on stage for a Barenaked Ladies tune. Two minutes later, the whole room – FBI agents and mathematicians included – was amiably singing along to "If I Had 1,000,000 Dollars."

Then it was Lydia's turn. She kissed Daniel and sat down at the piano. Without a word, she launched into Billy Joel's "Angry Young Man," playing so quickly her fingers blurred on the keys. She was a little rushed in the beginning, as if she wanted to get it over with, but by the time the song ended, her body had relaxed and she was beginning to enjoy herself.

She played for an hour – "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters," of course, a raucous version of Carole King's "I Feel The Earth Move," some Joshua Kadison and Leonard Cohen and a beautiful rendition of "In My Life" which made Alan dab at his eyes. There were a few original tunes as well and by the end of the set, she was playing with the confidence the liquor had stolen from her all those years ago.

"I want to thank you guys for coming out tonight," Lydia said as the applause died down. "If you liked what you heard and you'd like a CD, you can see Daniel --" Daniel waved from across the room "— and he'll set you up. They're ten bucks unless you have the same last name as me." She grinned at Charlie, who smiled back proudly.

"I'm going to end with a song I wrote for my family, my dad and my brothers, who really love me even when I think it might be in their best interest to walk away. It's called 'My Mother's Eyes.'"

When the first bars played, Charlie, Don and Alan recognized it immediately: it was the beginning of Margaret's "Etude in G Minor." But then it segued into something else, something more modern and melodic, not Margaret's music but yet still of Margaret's music.

Daughter music.

Don opened the CD case to look at the liner notes. _Music by Margaret Mann and Lydia Eppes. Lyrics by Lydia Eppes and Daniel Michaels. _

_I don't remember when she wasn't there  
With her laughing smile and her pinned-up hair  
Cookies in the oven and dirt on her knees  
The way her face lit up when she was pleased with us_

_We all lived in a house on a hill  
A boy and a girl and other boy still  
We didn't know how precious time goes by _

_So many tales to tell  
So many songs to sing  
Balls and dolls and integers in pi  
All of us the same in my mother's eyes. _

_I was too young when she moved away  
Too angry to call her every day  
So resentful to be left alone  
I didn't know I was still home in her heart_

_It seems I didn't let her in  
Instead I turned to whiskey and gin  
And figured I could stop that by and by _

_When my life crashed in on me  
I turned the only place I could  
She listened and she never asked me why  
My own tears stood in my mother's eyes. _

_Her sickness came with blood and pain  
The days were filled with dark and rain  
She was strong and she was brave  
I'd have traded my life to truly save her then_

_It was hard not to let desperation show  
In the end we had to let her go  
And we had no more tears left to cry_

_But I did what she asked of me  
When we laid her to rest  
I sang until the notes shook up the sky  
Still protected under my mother's eyes. _

_She was looking out for me  
When I put down the drink  
She's still looking out for me  
That's what I choose to think_

_I'm on my way back from insane  
I can feel the hope, I can feel the pain  
If my head is clear, I can deal with the rest  
And I can't believe this life I lead is blessed _

_You really can go home again  
My relatives are also friends  
And my mother gave us wings so we could fly _

_I know she's with us still, somewhere deep inside  
In the way my father looks at me  
I feel her in my piano keys  
Both my brothers have our mother's eyes._

There was a moment of perfect silence and then Charlie and Don both stood up, as if the move was choreographed, applauding. Don put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply as the rest of the room joined in the thunderous standing ovation. Lydia stepped away from the piano and gave a little embarrassed bow, saying, "Thanks – no, God, sit down, thank you."

Alan ducked his head and said to his sons in a low, husky voice, "I can feel your mother in this room."

Don nodded. Charlie, however, glanced past Alan to Millie to see if she had heard. To his utter surprise, she was smiling fondly at Alan, one hand resting lovingly on his back. "Your Margaret was certainly quite a woman," she said, with no animosity at all, and Charlie suddenly realized that if he let himself, he might like Millie Finch quite a bit.

Daniel abandoned his post by the CDs to scoop Lydia off her feet. "You are a diva!" he declared.

"No, I'm not, I just --"

He took her firmly by the shoulders. "Do you remember what Donna says?" he interrupted.

She giggled. Donna was a woman they knew from AA, who had been sober for more than ten years. "Yeah. Sometimes you should just shut up and say thank you."

"I love you, Lydia, but shut up."

Lydia kissed him as deeply as she dared in the middle of a public place. "I love you, too. Thank you."

There were no more words as she was surrounded by her family and friends, everyone wanting to hug and congratulate her.

"The Billy Joel tune was outstanding – but who's the angry young man?" Don wanted to know, pretending he was kidding. "Me or Charlie?"

Lydia began to laugh. "I dunno. I always thought it was me." She looked fondly at her loved ones. "Do you guys want to stay a while? Marty'll put on some music and maybe later we'll jam a little."

"You're not embarrassed to hang out with your old man?" Alan teased.

"No, I like my old man," Lydia answered, giving him a fierce squeeze.

"Water all around?" Don asked, and when he got nods in return, he made his way over the counter, stopping to share a smile and a word with Sharon.

Lydia turned to Charlie. "So you liked it?"

"Liked it?" Charlie echoed. "It was wonderful – it was almost a dichotomy of music and poetry."

"Music is poetry."

"No, that's not what I meant. You not only play the notes, you somehow play emotions – you take the pattern and while you're true to its form, you adapt as you go …" His voice trailed off and he shook his head, frustrated that he couldn't make his point more succinctly. "You know what it is?"

"What?" his amused sister asked.

He put an arm around her. "You still have perfect pitch."

**The end**

* * *

**For anyone interested, a couple of liner notes**

Here are the songs on Lydia's album:

_Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters  
Anomoly  
Crossing back to California  
In My Life  
A Long December  
My Mother's Eyes  
Amazing Grace_

And for what it's worth, here are some albums that I love and so, Lydia loved them, too.

"Honky Chateau" by Elton John  
"Painted Desert Serenade" by Joshua Kadison  
"Recovering the Satellites" by Counting Crows  
"Turnstiles" by Billy Joel  
"Tapestry" by Carole King  
"On the Border" by the Eagles  
"Toys in the Attic" by Areosmith  
"Centerfield" by John Fogarty  
"Moving Pictures" by Rush  
The soundtrack from "Shrek" and – go ahead and laugh – the soundtrack from "Chicken Little." Five for Fighting does a cover of "All I Know" that's outstanding.

Thanks so much for reading.

P&P :-)


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